


No More Maladies, No More Melodies

by LokiIago



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Love, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiIago/pseuds/LokiIago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love, sex, torture, family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I, i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't let me ruin me. I may need a chaperone,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Daredevil/

He could hardly keep the damn thing down. James Wesley felt his lip curl ever so slightly as the harsh, unforgiving texture of the kale leaf chaffed the inside of his mouth without any sign of dampening. He took a sip of water and finally sloshed the morsel down his throat by force. And yet oh my, he thought with a roll of the eyes, here we have still the entire rest of the salad. What fun.

The café he occupied was crowded, loud, full of badly done oil paintings of flowers and other such nonsense. The kale’s only redeeming quality had been that chewing it served as an aural distraction from the whining hippie music bleeding out the speakers. This is why he preferred his music without words. In fact, if the invention of the spoken language had been avoided all together just so he didn’t have to listen to Katy Perry ever again, it may have been worth it.

Just as he was about to shove another forkful of that awful stuff between his lips, something from inside Wesley’s pocket vibrated. He put the fork back down with something close to glee. Oh no, he thought at the salad, guess I won’t have time to finish you after all, you little terror.

He dabbed his lips with the napkin that had previously been across his lap and answered without looking at the caller ID. “Yes?”

“Uh, James?”

Wesley’s eyebrow raised. There were two people in the world who called him by his first name and this was neither. He checked his phone’s screen and held in a groan of irritation.

“Sorry to call you this early,” the panicked voice continued, “but it’s, uh, happening again and I forgot what you said I should—”

Wesley removed his glasses and gave the bridge of his nose a rub. “Francis.”

The voice on the other end stopped abruptly. Wesley took a breath.

“What is the problem?”

“It’s just that, the burner Mr. F—that, uh, our employer gave me isn’t working again.” There was a pause. “Sir.”

There it is, Wesley thought. He put his glasses back on. “Where are you, Francis?”

 

Francis was in the café so quick the waiter hadn’t had time to remove Wesley’s long-empty latte cup and his barely touched salad. The newer man took a hurried seat across from the more seasoned employee and scrambled to show him his glitch-ridden phone. Wesley’s lips pursed at how close Francis had moved his chair but took a look nonetheless.

He removed his glasses and examined the burner for a moment; clicking buttons here and there, holding it up to his ear and checking the volume. Wesley’s brow furrowed.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, Francis.” He extended his hand to give it back but the blond man put his fingers up against Wesley’s palm to stop him.

“No, sir, I wouldn’t waste your time if I wasn’t sure. It’s definitely busted.”

But there was cotton in Wesley’s ears. Suddenly the café’s temperature had gone up ten degrees. He almost had to ask Francis to repeat himself but the other man had removed his touch and was now holding the phone up in front of Wesley’s face. A moment of confused silence passed before James chuckled quickly and quietly. Now he knew why he hadn’t caught the problem right away.

“It’s set to Mandarin, Francis.”

“Oh,” Francis laughed. “Ha, um. How do I…?”

Wesley was somewhere between annoyance and adoring. It amazed him how young Wilson Fisk’s new recruits seemed sometimes. If he hadn’t helped recruit most of them himself, Wesley would almost think Fisk had gone straight up to high school graduation receiving lines and kidnapped some of the poor kids. Not that Francis was a kid. Not Wesley’s age but he was close, or perhaps that was wishful thinking. He definitely had the fashion sense of some jock boy trying out his daddy’s business-major outfit for the first time, Wesley had often thought. His suits were baggy, his shoes didn’t always match his belt, and other such faux pas haunted Francis since day one. Wesley was waiting until Francis’ birthday to take him to his tailor—waiting until then, or until the day he couldn’t take looking at the him any more.

He handed Francis’ phone back after hitting the proper buttons.

“Ah,” Francis laughed victoriously. “Thanks, James.”

Wesley adjusted his glasses warningly.

“Sir,” Francis corrected himself. As he was putting the burner back into one of his jacket pockets, Francis’ eyes glanced across the table. “It’s the time of year, isn’t it?”

Wesley hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

“For eating healthier,” Francis smiled, gesturing at the salad. “Almost bathing suit weather coming up and everything.”

Wesley had run out of times he could adjust his glasses without it looking bizarre but he had no other idea what to do now he had nothing to say. The thought of Francis imagining him in a bathing suit for even the smallest instant was enough to make him want to finally have that heart attack his mother had been warning him about since he started this job.

“Though,” Francis continued, looking now at the empty latte cup. “If you want my advice as an ex personal trainer, may want to switch to straight espresso. Less calories.”

Wesley, ears now burning pink, could feel his pulse in his throat. Discussing his food had already made Wesley as uncomfortable as it is humanly possible to be. Discussing how bad it was for him had put him on a new tier of mortification entirely. “Francis—”

“Or at least switch to skim milk. Soy or almond milk may be better actua—”

“That’ll be all, Francis?”

Francis’ lips came to an abrupt close. He looked across the table at the man whose eyes were shooting daggers more dangerous than any gun he had ever fired. The blond swallowed his next few words and nodded shyly before he stood up and exited the café.

 

The Manhattan air slapped him with a harsh, rainy palm as Francis walked back to the car. He’d done it again, he thought, rewinding back the tape in his mind and going over the last few minutes’ conversation. How had he done it again? Things had been going well. He’d even gotten James to smile but then, just as quickly, it looked like the man hated him.

Francis got into the passenger seat of one of his employer’s black SUVs. A man with a buzzcut, goatee, and an earpiece was on the driver’s side. He was wearing sunglasses despite the worsening rain.

“I think I did something wrong,” Francis said as the other man put the car in drive. “Do you think he’s just…like that?”

The other man chortled unkindly. “What, Wesley? He’s a fuckin’ faggot. Don’t let anything that little bitch has to say get you down, kiddo.”

Something deep in the pit of Francis’ stomach had curdled. It was like an egg had shattered in his chest, with sharp shards sticking to his ribs while something cold and wet sunk deeper and deeper.

“I don’t think,” Francis started. “I mean, we probably shouldn’t call people that, right?”

The other man scoffed. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em. If he’s not gettin’ it every night from Fisk, then something else must be stuck up his ass.” He laughed and gave Francis a friendly smack on the arm. Francis felt like the car was spinning around him but he heard himself force a weak laugh anyway.

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. I, ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm undecided about you again  
> Mightn't be right that you're not here  
> It's double-sided, cause I ruined it all,"
> 
> \-- Fiona Apple's /O Sailor/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: masturbation, imagined scenarios

The rest of the ride went swiftly and silently until they got to the exterior of Francis’ building. He thanked the other man and was inside as fast as his legs could carry him. The more he settled in, the more he realized he had been escaping that man and that conversation like an asthmatic flies from a room full of smokers. He undid his tie, took off his jacket and dress shirt, and tried to do a few pull-ups on the bar he’d installed onto his bathroom door but his head was so heavy it was weighing him down. Maybe it wasn’t it head. His chest still ached and the man’s words kept repeating in his mind. Maybe he shouldn’t care what Wesley said, if he liked him or hated him. Maybe he was just a stupid f—

Francis slumped down from the pull up bar and onto his bed. He felt a surge of guilt for even thinking those words about James. Not that anything would be wrong if they were true, Francis thought, it’s just that’s not what they like to be called these days. He had an uncle that was gay. And a lot of his clients when he’d been a personal trainer were definitely something. They say everyone’s a little bi, he’d heard someone joke once. Personally, Francis hadn’t given the subject much thought any which way. His job required a lot of touching in a lot of touchy spots. As much as he’d studied anatomy and physiology, he’d become somewhat intentionally desensitized to the human body. A client was a client, and no matter where his hands went or what was poking up into his face, Francis had to treat them all like the bundles of nerves and musculature that they were deep down. The last time he’d seen someone as attractive was…

Francis sighed and took out his cell phone. He debated calling James to apologize. He knew he’d said something stupid earlier but he still didn’t know exactly what. He’d probably just end up making it worse, Francis sighed to himself, and put the phone back. He lay there on his back and undid his belt. The summer city rain had made his work pants stick and chaff. Boxers, socks, a tank top, and a watch were all he had on when the pile of fabric on the floor beside the bed began to buzz. Francis reached for the burner but, puzzled, realized it was his personal phone that was ringing. He groped for it and saw the caller ID wasn’t any of his family or friends, but J. Wesley.

“Hello?” he answered nervously.

There was a semi-deep inhale on the other end. Signature James move. It meant something big was coming Francis’ way.

“I may have been,” murmured James. “Somewhat over-sensitive earlier.”

Francis ran a hand through his short, blond hair. “Sir, I’m sorry—”

“The burner working for you alright now?” The apologies were over.

Francis nodded to an empty room. “Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks again for that.”

Silence. Francis didn’t know what to say but didn’t want the call to end. And apparently neither did Wesley.

“What about rice milk?” he asked. Francis’ brow furrowed.

“Sir?”

“For lattes. I’ve heard rice milk is,” there was a searching breath.

Francis rescued the conversation. “Yeah, some people like it but personally I think it’s a bit watery. If you’re coming from using whole milk, you’re best bet is probably—”

“What makes you think I drink whole milk?” Wesley asked sharply.

Francis was about to kick himself. “I didn’t mean ‘you’ I meant, you know, ‘you.’ Like—”

“I have to go.”

“Sir? James!” The line was dead. Francis threw himself back down onto his bed and tossed the phone across the room. He covered his face with his hands and groaned so loudly and violently it was practically a growl by the end of his breath. He lay there with his eyes closed and his fists clenched. Maybe he was wound up too tight, maybe he just needed to let off some steam. After all, he hadn’t worked out yet today. Francis felt one of his hands begin to migrate to the waistband of his boxers. Pull-ups weren’t happening, he’d already discovered, but there was more than one way to relax.  
He tried vigorously to get the conversation out of his mind. He thought of all the beautiful women he’d seen at Fisk’s galas and at the restaurants where he stood watch. Francis thought of the skinny blondes, the curvy redheads, the thick afros and those girls’ voluptuous bodies, the funky rainbow colours and their owners’ pierced and tattooed forms, tall, short; nothing was doing it for him. He even tried thinking of the filthy, violent sex he’d seen pop up on the internet once or twice on his older brother’s computer. Nothing.

He felt another growl rising in his throat and it reminded him only of the day’s failure. And that reminded him of James. It reminded him of when he’d made James laugh. Of that smile that pushes up James’ smooth, round cheeks and crinkles his big, turquoise eyes. Or maybe they were more sea green, Francis wondered. With their long, dark eyelashes that fluttered delicately when he was deep in thought. That smile with its brilliant white teeth, its soft pink lips. Francis imagined just for an instant what those lips and those eyes would look like if they were caught up in the surprise of an earth shattering—

Francis’ eyes shot open as he realized what he was doing. He forcibly removed his hand from his boxers but the immediate ache that followed was painfully immense. He grit his teeth and commanded himself to think about his ex-girlfriend as he resumed touching himself. His hips thrust forward, bucking up in a rhythm that reminded him of her. Fast, careless, inexperienced. He thought of her mouth around his cock. He thought of it being James’ cock his hand was wrapped around.

“No,” he scolded himself loudly. “Come on, Frank,” he muttered. “Come on…”

But God he just wanted to please him. He wanted to do everything to that pale, blue-eyed brunette. Everything and anything to make him smile again. Francis imagined how soft James’ thighs would be as he knelt down in front of him and held them softly as he took James in his mouth. Would he be loud, Francis wondered? Whimpering and moaning as Francis swallowed every drop of him? Or maybe he’d want Francis’ hands. Maybe he’d want Francis to pick him up and place him on the kitchen counter in a fit of passion, throwing off everything else onto the tile floor, and cup his cock right there. Francis imagined biting and sucking James’ earlobes gently as he worshipped the man’s cock with his fingers and palm, spitting down every so often to give it that extra turbo boost.

The smile across Francis’ face was wide and wanting by the time he realized he’d given up his self control entirely. He was stroking his cock with a different pace now. His big, rough hand was moving up and down in a soft, ginger, excruciatingly slow tempo. He imagined enjoying every moment of James’ body. As he imagined holding him up in the shower and taking him gently under the warm water, Francis rubbed his cock’s tip with his thumb slightly, and cupped his balls with his other hand. He gave them a squeeze and light tug while his other hand kept to work until precum was leaking down across his knuckles.

The amount of tissues he needed to clean himself up afterward was almost embarrassing. But once he was all mopped up and back on the bed, panting, he stumbled upon an uncomfortable truth.

He wanted to kiss James Wesley.  Francis covered his face with his hands once more and convinced himself he was still drunk from the explosion of orgasm.  The events of the day, what that man had said; everything was just messing with him.  He decided he would force himself to work out, take a nice cool shower, and not give any of it another moment's thought until he'd had some sleep.

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. I, iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This mind, this body  
> And this voice cannot be  
> Stifled by your deviant ways  
> So don't forget what I told you  
> Don't come around  
> I got my own hell to raise,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Sleep to Dream/

A familiar foe, the salad lay sprawled in an unmanicured heap on Wesley’s cutting board. All the usual offenders were there: kale, spinach, red onions, cherry tomatoes, and a single crouton that he would save for the end as a consolation prize for himself. But this time, Wesley sneered at the pile of greens. This time he had them beat. Wesley whipped out his new pomegranate dressing like a gunslinger of the West and sprinkled it into the bowl.

“Yeah, how do you like that, you fucker?” he muttered as he stirred the salad viciously. 

“What was that, James?” called a voice from the living room you’d describe as frail unless you knew better.

“I said lunch is almost ready, Mother,” James called. 

His mother’s house in upstate New York was by no means modest yet while even more renovations were being done, she insisted on staying in the city with one of Wesley’s older sisters and this meant at least two meals a week with her one and only son—unless he wanted her to feel neglected. And by god, as a man who’d seen another man’s head be chopped off with a car door, James Wesley could attest that a neglected Henrietta Wesley was the more frightening goddamn thing on the planet. Wesley had never shared with his sisters the analogy between his mother and those dinosaurs that spit venom and puffed out their neck-folds into huge dragon-like umbrellas, but the resemblance was striking in his opinion. 

There was solace in his kitchen. In his whole flat really, but the kitchen especially. It was the only room that didn’t have a window and it felt like a cool, chrome cave he could hide in and focus on one task at a time until he was ready to rejoin the living. He was a man of minimalist taste, splurging occasionally on a piece of man-carved wood furnishings. The curlier and more intricate the design, the better. If it didn’t look Victorian, it wasn’t worth breaking his monochromatic colour scheme for. 

A scent like warm cinnamon crept up behind him and Wesley did everything in his power to control his breathing.

“Surprising fact, Nicole,” Wesley said with as much curt courtesy as he could muster. “When you hang on my back like that, it actually doesn’t make me make you lunch any faster.” 

The youngest of his three elder sisters tapped one high heel against the kitchen floor loudly and chewed her gum. “Even more startling, Jimmy,” she spat the word out like he’d wish she’d spit the Hubba Bubba cinnamon gum. The nickname inspired the intended shudder. “The more you call me Nicole, the more I want to tell Ma—”

“I’m not calling you anything that ends in an ‘I,’” Wesley snipped. “I’ve seen you sign your name, you put a heart on it instead of a dot!”

Nikki took her little brother by the shoulder and spun him around. 

“The more I want to tell Ma what I saw on the news last night.”

Wesley looked down at her and hoped his gulp was less visible than he suspected. He brushed her off and grabbed four bowls of salad. 

When he walked into his living room, after Nikki pushed past him to retake her seat next to one of her sisters, the sun shone onto the four Wesley women. In order of age it went Henrietta, Rebecca, Kate, and Nikki. In terms of who made Wesley’s blood pressure rise most it went Henrietta, Nikki, Kate, Rebecca. Nikki was closest to his age, his elder only by a year, and tried as hard as she could to be closest to him in terms of proximity. She had taken it upon herself to commit the annoyances of moving ten minutes away from him, asking endless questions about his personal and professional life, and worst of all: informing their mother of most of what he said, or what he didn’t say but she inferred and told their mother anyway. She had a nasty habit of bumping into him at clubs or when he was out shopping and it had been a long time ago he’d stopped believing it was a coincidence. Perhaps if she asked for money on fewer of those occasions, the charade would have lasted longer. He couldn’t bring himself to stop giving her cash, but the thought that her badly done perm and tacky teal pumps had come from his paycheck was almost enough to make him jump off a bridge.

Rebecca, Wesley’s oldest sister, did as much as she could to distance herself from the entire family and for that, James had a soft spot in his heart for her. As children, when she’d been sixteen and he’d been ten, he remembered she’d let him sit on the bathtub while she did her naturalistic makeup and uncomplicated hair. She’d sing in Irish and he listened intently to the beautiful noises. Normally she’d shut down any inquiry or comment from any of her siblings with a grunt or unamused raise of the eyebrow but when James asked her about Irish, or any of the plethora of languages his big sister knew, she’d open up to him with a fountain of knowledge. Not just the words, but the cultures and the mythologies—Rebecca Wesley was a walking library of the world. She hardly looked anything like her dark haired siblings with her blonde hair, but all of the living Wesleys had the same, unmistakable eyes. 

These days she hardly spoke with Wesley but that was fine for both of them. They could still share an irritated glance over Nikki’s head at each other or, if they had each had a bit to drink, chit chat in a language no one else at the table would understand much to their delight. Nikki would throw a fit when this started and, while Wesley would want to egg her on as much as possible, Rebecca would have the sense to either switch to English or to shut back down entirely. Kate would not care at all.

Kate was so like their mother, Wesley wondered as a child if she had been an experimental clone of Henrietta. Both women had short, kept hair with the same old-lady jewelry and skirt-suits: unflatteringly broad shoulder-pads, gaudy big pearls, long fake French tip nails, and lipstick that always matched their purses. They always sat beside one another and neither were particularly loquacious unless it was at the detriment of Nikki or Wesley. 

“Is the dressing light?” Kate asked breathily, in her standard tone that implied she would be disappointed and apathetic no matter what the response. 

Wesley nodded as he set down a plate in front of each woman. “Nikki, can you grab the forks?” he asked as he prepared to take a seat across Rebecca.

“I’m not your slave, Jimmy,” Nikki scoffed.

“Nicole,” Wesley started.

“Get your sister a fork, James,” Kate moaned, “we’re your guests! Besides, you could use the exercise, couldn’t you?”

Wesley felt his ears begin to burn. “How thoughtful, Kate. Thank you.”

She tossed a hand up thoughtlessly towards the plate in front of her. “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? This is why we’re all starving and you’re serving us something a rabbit would eat, right? Because you’re trying to lose weight?”

Wesley pursed his lips so hard he thought he might dislocate one of his own teeth. “Very insightful.”

“Oh thank god,” Nikki twittered. “Not thank god for the salad, I mean, gross, but you’re finally doing something about yourself! That’s such good news.” 

Wesley cast a pleading glance towards his mother for any sort of lifeboat but her eyes were as unforgiving and uncaring as the day he’d left for college. He sighed and retreated back to the kitchen.

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	4. I, iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, it doesn't seem right  
> To take information  
> Given at close range  
> For the gag  
> And the bind  
> And the ammunition round,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Not About Love/

He hoped when he answered the phone he had actually said “Yes?” instead of the “Thank God!” that wanted to burst from his mouth. 

“Wesley.” The voice on the other end of the line was deep and strained like the roots of a great tree. 

He put down the fork and checked to see if his mother or any of his sisters were watching. Nikki, of course, had her eyes glued to him. He put a cupped hand over his mouth and turned away slightly.

“Sir?”

His employer stated an address in Queens. 

“Are we meeting anyone there, sir?” Wesley was almost begging.

“Not today but potentially. Before we have any dealings there I just want you and Francis to give the place a once over. Get a feel for the neighbourhood, get your bearings and all that.”

“I’ll get the car, sir.” Wesley beamed as he hung up. 

“Going somewhere?” Nikki called. He had gotten his jacket and now saw eight pairs of steely blue eyes were drilling into him. 

“Business,” he said as he practically ran for the door. “I’ll be back in a bit. Rebecca, lock up if you leave before I get back?” And just like that he was free. The worst weather Manhattan had to offer was nothing short of gorgeous to James Wesley as he strode out to the parking garage and gave his man a call. He hung up and was told he’d only have to wait a few minutes for the SUV to arrive but, not one to miss any opportunity however small, Nikki texted him before the driver arrived.

“I’m serious, I’ll tell her,” it said. Nikki was threatening to tell their mother what she thought was an incriminating tale in the hopes of, what? Money, probably, Wesley thought. Normally it wouldn’t worry him but Nikki hadn’t been the only one to catch the news last night. Security footage shows a black SUV driving away from a fresh crime scene where a man had been brutally beaten and choked to death. Business as usual, a tad sloppy of him to not notice the camera, but with one hitch: in one shot you can see James Wesley’s face. Half-covered by shadow and him wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, granted; not enough to convict him, but enough that if you were as eager to unofficially convict Wesley of anything as his mother was, you’d have an easy go of it indeed. 

The SUV pulled up and Wesley made the executive decision to put off worrying about his sister for at least a few hours. Cloudy thinking had almost gotten the better of him last night. It would not happen today.

It had been a maelstrom of worry and anxiety the past few days. He knew his mother would be coming to town, he had just started starving himself for the sake of better health, and then there was the whole Francis thing. Not the best thing to start thinking about when he was on his way to pick the man up, but still. He did feel bad for being so defensive. Yet, it was hard to get weight-loss tips from someone who looked like they could stunt double for Captain America. Wesley loathed Francis’ loose-fitting wardrobe for its shabbiness but seeing him shirtless had been infinitely worse. 

There had been a night where things had not gone according to plan. One could argue shit had completely hit the fan. And one could also argue that shit had completely hit the fan, and it had all been Francis’ fault. Fisk gave him a once over with his fists and for Fisk, it was a fairly merciful beating, yet for some reason Wesley found himself gently putting a hand on his employer’s shoulder after only a moment or two. Wilson wiped his brow and told Wesley to get the little son of a bitch out of his sight.

Wesley bent down and hoisted Francis up, supporting him on one of his shoulders as they walked back to one of the cars. He placed the dazed man across the back seat and gave the glass between them and the driver a knock. 

“Where are we—?” Francis tried to ask between pounds of his head and throbs of his bleeding facial muscles. Wesley didn’t answer but rested a hand reassuringly on Francis’ shin for the rest of the ride. 

The car pulled up in the parking garage attached to Wesley’s building. The driver knew to wait. Wesley bent down and helped Francis out of the car and towards the elevator. Francis was nodding off fast. His head bumped into Wesley’s a number of times before they reached his floor. Wesley rushed them both into his flat, into the bathroom, and sat Francis onto the closed toilet seat. 

“I need you to sit up for me,” Wesley said sternly but gently to the man who was beginning to list to the side. Francis righted himself but his eyelids were still half closed. Wesley took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He had gotten a hand towel and was soaking it in warm water and hydrogen peroxide. “Take off your jacket, Francis, can you do that?” Francis nodded and sloppily yanked the sleeves of his work clothes down. 

“Good,” Wesley said softly. He knelt down between Francis’ legs and readied the towel. “If we’re being honest with each other, Francis, this is going to be incredibly unpleasant.” The blond nodded but that didn’t stop him but grimacing when Wesley applied the first dab of the towel. Francis involuntarily reached out and grabbed Wesley’s hand.

“I know,” the brunette man said, allowing the physical contact and even returning it with a pat to Francis’ knee. “I know,” he repeated and carried on cleaning Francis up. 

Ten minutes or so later, Francis’ face was as clean as it was going to get but his shirt was still sopping wet with blood and water. Wesley offered one of his few T-shirts for Francis’ ride home. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead owning one of the things but a man did need something comfortable to wear in the wee hours of the morning while he drank his coffee. In the first of many embarrassing moments of that night, Wesley realized the shirt may be too big for Francis. Loose would be fine, he’d be used to that, but the mortification of the man swimming in it would be terrible. Wesley decided a shirt was a shirt and a favour was a favour, and he brought out the shirt for Francis. 

When he came back into the bathroom, he saw Francis had already removed his shirt. If Wesley had been feeling self-conscious before, he certainly wasn’t doing backflips now. The blond in front of him was a god. He was what old Greek statues were based on. He was what the first comic book superheroes were aspiring to look like. Muscles on his arms and stomach that bulged modestly under tan skin without looking plastic or inflated. Wesley’s eyes darted down for the briefest instant and saw that yes, Francis possessed the “Ken doll” muscles that stretched from his hip bones all the way down past the waist line of his pants. He must have been standing there with the shirt half-outstretched like some broken mannequin for an awkward amount of time because even the half-conscious Francis realized it was up to him to break the silence.

“Thanks again, James,” he said quietly. 

Wesley was aware now for the first time really how big Francis’ eyes were; and what an intricate colour. Was that green? Yellow flecks complimented by his long, blond eyelashes. He remembered how they looked when he was inches away from them, as he cleaned Francis’ face. Soft, vulnerable. Not to mention his pouting, full lips. They looked good saying his name, Wesley thought. But he snapped out of it.

“We don’t use first names,” Wesley said. He turned and exited the bathroom.

 

Flash forward to the present day when this was all what James Wesley was trying his hardest to not think about. They pulled up to the curb where Francis was waiting. With the rain coming down, he eagerly popped in the backseat next to Wesley. He sat too close and their knees touched. Wesley instinctively flinched away. Something was different. Francis didn’t say anything. Not even a smile or a nod. Wesley glanced over a few times throughout the next few minutes and realized he wasn’t even looking at him. If he didn’t know any better, Wesley would almost think Francis was… Well fine, Wesley thought. Silence was golden and the more they focused on the work, the better.

The driver pulled up to the address in Queens. It wasn’t a terrible neighbourhood but it wasn’t anything Wesley was used to back in Manhattan. He imagined telling his sisters and mother he’d moved here and giving them this address next time they wanted to visit and the thought brought a warm smile to his face before he and Francis faced the rain. They ran to the awning and both looked at the door.

Wesley turned to Francis. “You have the key, don’t you?”

Francis’ gaze remained stony and facing forward. “Shit,” he whispered. 

Wesley had to control himself to not kick the door. “Francis! Really?” he cried. There was a clap of thunder and the rain was now coming down in sheets with the two of them getting blasted from either side and behind as they huddled close together under the square foot of coverage. 

“He told me where to pick the key up,” Francis moaned. “He told me and I completely spaced it. I’m so sorry, sir.” He hung his head and Wesley leaned back against the door, allowing his own head to bonk the wood slightly. He closed his eyes and thought. 

“Alright. Well, it’s not as if we’re selling burgers at Wendy’s,” Wesley finally said. Francis looked at him. “We’re criminals, of a sort. Let’s B&E this bastard.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	5. I, v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I let the beast in too soon, I don't know how to live  
> Without my hand on his throat; I fight him always and still  
> How crazy I am,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Fast As You Can/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussion of eating disorders

Francis would like to have imagined his entrance through the window and onto the ground had been graceful. He would have been incorrect. Wesley had been able to pry the window open with a knife and one of Francis’ shoes but he was definitely not about to go head-first through an opening he wasn’t sure he could fit through. But Francis made it into the building without any issue and was soon looking up at Wesley, gesturing him come in.

Wesley gave him a raised eyebrow and shook his head. “Just open the door,” he whispered. Though lowering his voice after the crash Francis had made may have been a bit pointless, it was still instinctual.

Francis looked around. “There’s a wall. Just come in!”

Wesley gave serious thought to telling Francis to just go around the ground floor until he found the damn front door but time and rain ushered him onward and inward. As it turned out, he fit rather well though the entrance was as far from dignified as one could get. His glasses not only were flung in god knows what direction, he fell straight onto his knees then rolled over onto Francis, who was still kneeling down by the foot of the window. Francis held Wesley gently by the shoulders and handed him his glasses. Wesley put them on, slightly shaken from the fall but also slightly satisfied he could fit.

Francis looked down at the man in his arms, who was practically sitting on his lap, and couldn’t help it: Wesley was smiling like a little kid and it was infectious.  Francis beamed down at him and Wesley felt like that smile was his own ray of sun.

“That was pretty crazy, huh?” Francis whispered into Wesley’s ear.

Wesley nodded, their laughter subsided, and there was silence as they both realized the two of them were still soaked with rain and their clothes were clinging to their bodies like plastic wrap. The warmth of Francis’ hand on Wesley’s clammy, damp shoulder felt as good as any fire or fresh towel. He adjusted his glasses nervously and Francis cleared his throat softly.

“I’m sorry if I said anything that upset you.”

Wesley looked up at him.

“The other day. And the other night,” Francis looked down, ashamed. “I’ve thought about it a lot and I think you thought I was…well, look, I think you have a great…”

Wesley’s eyes were wide and it was almost enough to make Francis shut up but he had to say it.

“You have a great body. You always look fantastic. I’m sorry if I, or," he cleared his throat again, "anybody else, has ever made you think different.”

There was a crack of thunder and seconds later, the entire room was illuminated by lightning. Wesley saw for a second Francis’ eyes looking deeply into his own. He saw how close their faces were. He saw what he wanted to be true but couldn’t believe.

“Okay,” Wesley said. Francis stared, concerned and confused. Wesley inhaled deeply. “I mean, thank you.”

“I mean it,” Francis nudged gently.  He was crossing a line.  Not just from superior to employee but man to man.  He knew what he was saying was inappropriate, uncalled for, so why couldn't he stop?  Were the past few nights really having this much of an impact on me, he thought.  Francis had no problem considering the fluidity of his sexuality but the whole point was to apologize for making James uncomfortable.  Like always, he could feel himself messing up.  But surely James was used to being swooned over.  Surely one more bright-eyed rookie wasn't going to--

“Okay,” Wesley said again, this time quite a bit louder. It was time to change the subject. They both got to their feet and the spot where Francis’ hand had been on Wesley’s shoulder was now cold and empty. When they stood a bit too close together, this time, Wesley didn’t mind.

They explored the flat for the next half hour. The two made sure no one was home but didn’t want to make their presence too noticeable, regardless. They put on gloves and checked for how many entrances the place had, how many closets and bathrooms, searched usual hiding spots for any concealed weapons. After all that, the place checked out as clean. The last room the two examined was the living room. With a TV, the couches, and a hundred other nooks and crannies to look; it kept them busy for a while. Finally, Wesley called it.

“If I touch one more old tobacco wrapper, I’m going do the one thing that could make sitting on this sofa even more unpleasant,” Wesley gagged, unsticking his gloved hand from the litter strewn about the inside of the couch. Francis chuckled and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve about had my fill of tacky interior design too,” he gestured at the navy blue curtains and ancient Roman-looking vases. Wesley laughed, surprised and appreciative of the blond’s hidden bitchiness.

“Mean’s a good colour on you, Francis,” he smirked and started towards the main hall. But Francis stopped him.

“You know what’s a good colour on you?” he asked.  Wesley stiffened as Francis took a few steps towards him, arms oustretched.  He began positioning Wesley in the rainy twilight that was casting shadows through the curtains. Wesley remained silent and compliant, allowing himself to be shifted ever so slightly by Francis’ soft touch until the blond gave a satisfied: “There.”

The dusk cascaded down Wesley’s face, making his hair swirl with blues; his cheeks bloom with moonlight whites; and his eyes sparkle with every blue-green Francis had ever seen. Wesley adjusted his glasses and looked at the floor.

“This is…” Silly, embarrassing. But the word wouldn’t come. He finally dared look up at Francis, who had been staring at him the whole time.

“You look,” he whispered, taking a final step closer so that their faces were almost touching. You look like how I imagined you the other night, he thought. You look like how I’ve imagined you every night since. He hadn't been able to get Wesley out of his mind.  The one accidental self-exploration had turned into a constant gnaw at Francis' chest.  “You look so gorgeous,” Francis said.

Wesley’s eyes were wide with equal parts desire and panic and Francis moved his face in and planted the softest kiss on his cheek. They remained like this even as Francis pulled back away.

“I’m sorry,” Francis said, his eyes suddenly darkening and his brow furrowing. He cleared his throat and walked hurriedly back into the hall towards the front door. Wesley stay paralyzed in the spot he’d been left for a good few seconds before he remembered to move. Absent-mindedly he removed his gloves and followed the other man back towards the foyer.  Wesley had never been kissed like that before.  He'd given girls pecks on the lips, received sloppy drunken kisses in men's bathroom stalls, but a sweet gentle kiss on the cheek?  And with all the love and adoration that was in Francis' eyes as he pulled away, it had made Wesley think that the whole world had been made just for him, just for that moment.  Francis thought he was...gorgeous?  Wesley had struggled with body dysphoria ever since he was a teenager.  Eating disorders and anxiety haunted his every move, to the point where perhaps he wasn't disinterested in dating but he'd assumed to not bother was safer.  No one could possibly want him if he couldn't even stand looking in a mirror.  Since then he'd lost fifty pounds and gained two inches but those sort of feelings aren't like a cold or a flu; Wesley could never just get better.  It was like alcoholism--it was a malady that would be with him his entire life, something that only got better in stages of how well Wesley learned to ignore it.

Gorgeous?  So said the tanned, perfect figure Wesley had cleaned up in his bathroom so long ago.  Wesley would be lying to himself if he said he'd never thought about him.  What lay between his thighs had been dormant for so long it had not occurred to him to make anything of those thoughts but the look in Francis' eyes as he sat, wounded, across from Wesley had stuck with him.  And the arm muscles didn't hurt either.  Wesley felt his chest tighten and his vision grow fuzzy.

Francis was fumbling with his discarded gloves so that he could open and shut the door while still not leaving any fingerprints. He had just gotten all the locks undone when he realized.

“We should probably head back out the window. We don’t have the key to lock all these back u—”

But his words were shoved back into his mouth when Wesley stood up on his toes and pushed Francis back against the door with his lips. Francis was harsh to the senses, Wesley noted. His stubble was sharp, his jaw strong. But he couldn’t help going in for more. Wesley reached up and put his hand behind Francis’ head as he deepened their kiss. Francis felt several metallic bolts and levers piercing into his back but damned if he wasn’t staying right where he was. Well, with one small change. He waited until Wesley drew a breath to take him by the neck and shove him up against the door in his place. Wesley gasped into Francis’ mouth but as the blond man’s hold on Wesley’s throat grew just slightly tighter, the gasp became a loud moan. Wesley’s lips were so soft but Francis couldn’t stop there. He tilted Wesley’s chin up and had a go at his neck; kissing everywhere from the outline of Wesley’s jaw, down the side of his throat to the centre of his adam’s apple, back up to where he nibbled on his ear. Wesley could hardly contain himself. His whimpers and gasps were filling the foyer and as Francis held him by the neck with one hand, his other began to migrate south towards the seat of his pants. In one fluid motion, Francis gave Wesley’s adam's apple a suck and his ass a squeeze.

“Francis!” he cried out, his voice high and broken.  Anyone listening would think it was a plea for the blond man to stop, but they both knew better. Wesley was seeing stars. Their thighs, still moist in their rain-slicked trousers rubbed up between one another, their crotches massaging one another as the two kissed with more and more urgency.  Francis' grip on Wesley's round, giving ass tightened.  He was never going to let him go.  Wesley took hold of Francis' shoulders and pressed him so hard to his chest that he was sure he'd leave the poor man with bruises.  Wesley's once shy kisses moved down to Francis' neck, down in the sweet spot where it met the beginning of his shoulder, and he bit down hard.  Francis cried out.  Francis knew Wesley shouldn't do that--it would leave a mark, maybe even draw blood with how hard he was biting down.  Marks raise questions.  Still.

"Do that again," Francis breathed.  Wesley smirked into the reddening skin under his lips and bit down again.  In return, Francis was about to move his hand inwards towards the fly of Wesley's trousers.  Both of them were seconds away from finishing right then and there. It was almost lucky that Wesley’s phone rang.

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	6. I, vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And now I'm hard, too hard to know  
> I don't cry when I'm sad anymore, no no,"
> 
> \-- Fiona Apple's /Left Alone/

Just checking in. Of course he was. No sir, yes sir, all fine sir. Wesley tapped the phone and hung up. Francis hadn’t moved and the two were still panting, hard and aching beneath the entrapment of their flies. The two men shared a pleading glance with each other but they both knew the moment had passed. To make matters worse, when Wesley had hung up with Fisk, he saw he had nine texts from Nikki and one missed call from his mother.  A dead puppy couldn’t have been more of a buzz kill. 

“We should...” he murmured.  Francis nodded and locked the door back up.

 

An hour later, Wesley was back in his flat.  The peace and quiet he so needed to process what had happened with Francis was not to be granted him that evening it seemed, as his mother remained seated in his living room as if she hadn’t moved all day.  She probably hadn’t, Wesley thought, stony old gargoyle like she was. He was relieved Nikki had been banished from the looming conversation (Henrietta must have said something, for Nikki would never have elected to miss seeing the onslaught mother had in store for her little brother).  Rebecca had probably gone home hours ago but Kate’s absence was somewhat worrisome.

Wesley took off his jacket and set his keys down, not quite ready to dive into the living room from the safety of the kitchen, but Henrietta had nothing but time. When he had nothing left to adjust, Wesley held back a sigh and took a seat across from his mother. Her eyes, so very much like own, were fixed on an imaginary point in time and space far away. Her breathing was slow, her lips were pursed, and her long thick nails were clicking and clacking on the wood of the chair like a dreadful grandfather’s clock.  Wesley was reminded of countless times in his childhood where the two had acted out this same scene.  He had done everything in his power to deprive his mother of things to chastise him about: he got straight A’s, he won scholarships, he did his own laundry and cleaned his own dishes.  He worked part-time at the library so even money was something he rarely had to ask his mother for. He would only admit it to himself every so often, in the witching hours of nights he couldn’t find even an hour of sleep, that perhaps the only thing he was being punished for was looking so much like his late father. 

“Did she threaten you with something before she told me?” his mother finally asked. She hadn’t broken her stare into nothingness and her fingers hadn’t stopped ticking to her silent clock so the suddenness of the question almost made Wesley flinch. 

“Probably,” Wesley answered simply.  “All her texts were while I was working so I—”

 “I have no idea where she gets it, you know,” she told her son.  Wesley had heard this a thousand times.  Possibly enough to recite it himself.  “Nicole is so lazy.  She has no ambition, no husband, no talents.  What good is she, James?”

He inhaled deeply and removed his glasses.  He knew better than to interrupt.

“Nothing like Rebecca or Katherine.  Nothing like me. It breaks my heart, James.” Henrietta Wesley had finally slowed her hand.  She now held them together like she was praying for forgiveness from a long-absent god. “It breaks my heart to have raised two such worthless children.”

Wesley swallowed hard and shot his gaze down to the floor.  This is the part when she would begin to go on about his wasted skills, his wasted bone structure, his wasted this his wasted that.  With all his schooling couldn’t he get a respectable job she could tell her friends about?  With all his good genes couldn’t he slim down so the girls could see his cheekbones? With all his income couldn’t he find a woman to treat right and settle down with?  It had been worse when he’d been a teenager.  A hefty wall flower with no friends to speak of and even less romantic prowess to mention.  He’d stopped fighting back almost two decades ago.  Fighting off the voices in his own mind and that of his mother was just too much.

“I like how I look,” he’d dare say softly to her one night before his high school graduation.

 “At least get contacts, James?” she was begging.  “For me? Or your shirts, why do you insist on stripes?  Do you want to embarrass me tomorrow more than you already will?”  Tears were in her eyes as she stood across from where he sat on his bed. 

 “I’m graduating second in my class,” Wesley whispered in a cracked voice.

 “Do you hear yourself, James?” Henrietta asked.  Suddenly her eyes were full of concern, of sympathy.  She knelt down in front of him and touched his knee. He recoiled at the touch but she kept her hand there as she reached her other out to stroke the hair out of his face.  “My son. My baby boy,” now it was her voice that was breaking.  Wesley’s eyes widened in horror.  He was accustomed to disappointing her but he was not used to the raw, unadulterated sorrow he saw in his mother’s eyes now.

 “You’re settling, James.  In everything you do. Is it because of me? Is it something I’ve done?”

“Mother,” he began to protest miserably.  He tried to touch her hand but by then she’d stood back up and began walking out of his room.

“I’m so sorry I raised you to think second best was good enough, James. I take full responsibility. But please,” she gestured finally back towards the shirt Wesley had laid out for himself to wear the next day, “stop punishing me.” 

 

Here they were again.  But this time it wasn’t a fight over a senior photo.  It wasn’t a fight about anything; it never was.  Wesley knew this time it would be harder to assuage his mother, if such a thing were ever possible entirely.  She had a legitimate worry about her son, and Wesley’s job was to convince her it wasn’t real.  The security footage, she asked.  No idea, he assured. Looks so much like you, she insisted. Was busy at the time, he swore. The volley went back and forth for almost an hour before he successfully promised his mother he had been nowhere near the area where that man had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp.

“I just worry about you, James,” she said in a dying voice before he helped her to her feet and out the door. 

He slumped against the closed doorway until the clicking of his mother’s heels had vanished down the hall.  Well that was just fantastic, he thought.  What should he bottle up and never think about again first: the fact his mother thought he was an even bigger disappointment than the sister who spent her last paycheck on a “Ain’t No Wifey” tank top or the impending, awkward conversation he would have to try and avoid with Francis tomorrow?  His threw his glasses to the counter and buried his face in his hands. There was a scream inside his throat, ripping and clawing at his tongue.  He clenched his eyes shut and held his breath while he sunk to the floor. He stayed like that for a moment, until his breaths came easier.  He felt his phone begin to buzz.  Couldn't they leave him alone? Couldn't they give him a moment for pity's sake? He clenched his jaw so tightly that a distinct crackling sound emanated from one of his bottom teeth and he rubbed his eyes so hard he saw lights before he checked the caller ID.   


	7. I, vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I still only travel by foot and by foot, it's a slow climb,  
> But I'm good at being uncomfortable, so  
> I can't stop changing all the time,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Extraordinary Machine/

He’d always been fairly popular. It wasn’t vanity to acknowledge it, Francis thought. It wasn’t really even a fact he had noticed until he’d been working with Fisk for a few weeks; after the late nights had faded away and the drunk selfies had lessened in frequency. His high school buddies had stopped calling and Francis had stopped forgetting to text them back. But Francis wasn’t used to being alone just yet. He’d try to rekindle old fires with the guys and every once in a while they’d crack open a few cold ones at one of their flats. They’d watch the rugby game and they’d swap grotesque tales of sexual congress, and for the evening it would be as good as the old times had ever been. The buzz of socializing would linger for a few days but then the malaise and realization that this was his new life would settle like dust on Francis’ smile.

The army ran in his blood almost as thick as the Irish ears and the Brooklyn accent. His older brother had been on the ground in the Middle East until one of his legs had been blown off by an IED when Francis was twelve and he was twenty. Maybe it should have scared him away from the idea, but his brother’s injury only made Francis want to enlist even more.

“Are you retarded?” his brother shouted when Francis announced he would be joining his school’s ROTC organization. They had all been sitting at the dinner table, the boys and their mother and father, but a static-filled silence now crackled across dinner. Francis’ mother looked deeply into the napkin on her lap and her husband coughed loudly.

“Language,” he murmured to his older son, who didn’t give him the slightest indication he’d heard him.

“What, you wanna be a hero like me, Frank?” he barked. “Cuz ya know that worked out so well, right?”

Francis locked his jaw. “I want to help people,” he stated.

His older brother shook his head and forced a laugh. “Look, I know you made varsity a year ahead of schedule and you’re startin’ to bulk up and you think you’re hot shit like Captain fuckin’ America—”

“Language,” whined his father.

“But I’ll tell ya somethin’ Frank,” said his brother with a more serious, soft tone. He sighed and scratched at the leg he still had. “We ain’t Captain America. Not guys like you an’ me. So look, promise me somethin’.”

He reached next to him and gave his little brother’s cheek a firm but loving pat. “You do whatever you wanna do. ROTC, baseball; you kick the shit out of it. But promise you’ll never do anythin’ as stupid as get yourself hurt, okay Franky?”

Francis nodded and watched his brother’s furrowed brow turn into a warm smile. He had turned his attention away from Francis and back to his food but his little brother kept looking at him as something big and brilliant swelled in his chest. His brother was wrong. Losing his leg fighting to help people wasn’t stupid. He didn’t care what his brother said; to Francis he was a hero. He was every bit as amazing as Captain America.

The first time he saw a man’s eye get punched through the back of his skull by Wilson Fisk, Francis heard his brother’s words in his head. He had anticipated violence but in the same way he imagined it would have been in the secret service or any other body guard. Bodily harm was to be defended against, and it was supposed to be infrequent. Only a few days under his new employer and it dawned on Francis that neither of these assumptions were anywhere near correct. It horrified him. He couldn’t do this.

“We’re not helping anybody,” he kept repeating to himself one night after Fisk had driven off in one of the SUVs. He had applied to protect the man who was trying to save Hell's Kitchen.  He had been thrilled at the chance to defend the man who was defending others.  But the blood was still drying on the floor around him, growing sticky and dark. It was just a matter of time before he was asked to do something he would never forgive himself for.

“It’s unpleasant, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind him. Francis spun around and was gripped in immense, immediate panic when he saw Wilson Fisk’s second in command approaching him in the dark. The blond tried to collect himself but it was clear James Wesley had heard everything. The brunette took a deep breath, took out his handkerchief, and offered it to Francis.

“You’ve got something just…” Wesley cleared his throat and gestured towards Francis’ face, “Just there.” The shaken newbie took the kerchief and dabbed at his forehead. With no small amount of repulsion he saw when he took it away that he’d had a chunk of violently discarded meat sticking to his skin. Francis swallowed hard and shoved the fabric into one of his pockets.

“I’ll wash this and give it back,” he offered weakly. James Wesley nodded and the two men stared out at the city skyline. It looked like a broken zipper, its teeth jagged and uneven as it tried to bite the sky.

“I hate this city,” James said almost to himself. Francis said nothing and together they shared a scarlet sunrise.

 

Francis was not used to being alone. But inexperienced as he was, he knew this was something different. James’ kisses were still on his mouth just as much as his marks were on Francis’ shoulder and throat. While he stood in the shower under the cool jets of water, the soap long gone, he wished he was better. That was it, really. It was no grand revelation. Francis just wanted to make people happy and no matter what he did, he never seemed to make the good outweigh the bad. Don’t do this shit for me Franky, he could almost hear his brother say. He knew he shouldn’t do it for anybody. He should do what he loved for the sheer pleasure of it—that was the point wasn’t it? But how was it doing what he loved seemed so intertwined with trying to please the unpleasable?

He turned the water off but stood there a moment longer. He should leave James alone. Francis allowed his forehead to press up against the cold, dripping tile of the shower wall. Leave it, he ordered himself. Don’t make things worse.

By the time he’d gotten out of the shower and put his pyjama bottoms on however, he found that leaving it alone was just another promise to himself that he would break. He dialled James’ number and waited. Christ he felt like a teenage girl. He should hang up—this was needy. This is what clinginess looked like. But by the time he finally decided it was better to leave well enough alone, the other man picked up.

“What?" barked a breaking, nasal voice. The man was in the middle of crying. Francis almost didn’t recognize him.

“What’s wrong?” Francis asked, sitting up straight in his bed.

There was a deep breath, interrupted by a quick cough and a sniffle. “Nothing you need to bother yourself with."

Francis felt cold with his impotent urges to assure them both everything could be fine again. "What’s—oh Christ, is it about—?”

“No,” James laughed through another sniff. Francis heard him blow his nose softly. “I have slightly bigger things on my mind."

There was an instinct in Francis to be offended, put off.  But something must be wrong, this couldn't be right. Francis leaned back and held the phone close to his ear. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No! God no. The thought of anyone seeing me like this is nauseating. Don't you have anything better to do anyway?"

Francia furrowed his brow.  "I was just--"

James cleared his throat. "So you were calling because?”

It caught Francis off guard like it always did when James snapped back to his cold, uninterested persona. It was his turn to sigh. It was sudden and heavy like a brick to the stomach but he finally realized: it was just the way it was going to be. The other man’s affection would be like a firework; vibrant and powerful for the amount of time it took you to realize it was happening and then gone without a trace. He thought it might have been different after what had happened earlier. But he wouldn’t bring it up. He wouldn’t bring anything up.

“Must have dialled you by mistake,” Francis said. “Sir.” And he hung up.

Some fireworks just weren’t worth it.

 

END OF PART ONE.


	8. Break Between the Acts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don't you tell me to deny it  
> I've done wrong and I want to suffer for my sins  
> I've come to you 'cause I need guidance to be true  
> And I just don't know where I can begin,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Criminal/

The texture was somewhere between damp sand and a soggy piece of drift wood. The taste, while claiming self-consciously in small letters to be one of peanut butter, was more like if a raisin had been dribbled over several crushed fig-infused breath mints. No matter how many times he swallowed, James Wesley would find new undiscovered territories of crumbling protein bar clinging to his teeth. The gulps of black, unsweetened coffee he pounded back only proved to make the aftertaste of the bar accentuated and more acidic. The migration from lattes to skinny lattes, from skinny lattes to cappucinos, from cappucinos to coffee had taken months. So many things were losing their sweetness and getting colder.

After Francis had called him that night back in summer, besides intructions and confirmations, the two hadn't exchanged more than a few words at a time. What was the most concerning, Wesley realized after a few days, was that it was not him doing the brushing off. Francis was now nothing but cordial, nothing but concise. At first Wesley had been glad of the renewed formality; it had given him some time to digest the recent unpleasantness with his family. But after that fog had lifted, he began to suspect the silence in the back seat of the black SUV was not for his benefit.

The two men and their employer were headed to the location they'd broken into a few days ago.  Wesley kept a straight face while Fisk was in the car with them but for the brief moment after he'd gotten out, Wesley shot a glance at Francis to see if the locale roused any knowing smile or clandestine stare. But Francis hopped out immediately after Wilson. Wesley swallowed the instance down and chalked it up to professionalism. The meeting between their employer and the Japanese went smoothly; Wesley translated and Francis kept guard, nothing out of the ordinary. But when the two men walked back out through the door where they had shared their single moment of intimacy and still Francis had not given the slightest indication it had ever taken place, Wesley's mood began to sour.

Fisk had been dropped off safely and Wesley was next on the route.  The blond's jaw remained stiffly clenched, his eyes fixed out the window. Wesley knew they'd be outside his building in moments so he adjusted his glasses and finally chewed out an offer of small talk.

"At least we didn't have to go through the window this time."

"Yes, sir."

The shy smile he'd forced towards the back of Francis' head disintegrated into a look of disgust and he resigned himself to silence for the remainder of the ride. Now here it was, with summer bristling under its new coat of dying leaves, and that resignation had lasted much longer. He tried to shove his feelings on the matter down where everything else was laying nervously dormant but every so often an ambush of guilt and longing would arise. When this happened, his world was hot and heavy, a boiling current tugging him under. His saliva would taste like battery acid in his mouth and his hands would run cautiously over the screen of his phone. Yet without fail, pride would win and the call would not be made.

What had he expected, Wesley would ask of himself. The feelings Francis had had for him had been fleeting things, he was sure. Nothing short of cabin fever. The blond had no doubt realized his Adonis-esque physique and his welcoming love were put to better use elsewhere. It was a good thing Wesley had been clever enough to not think it had been anything else, he told himself as he stared into his coffee. As he stood in the shower. As he prepared bland meals. Those warm, kind eyes that looked at Wesley and saw something beautiful.  Something "gorgeous."  The hands that had held him close, embracing and wanting every part of him.  The passion that had been raw but the kisses that had been gentle, patient, adoring.  He wondered what would have happened that night if things had gone differently; if he had allowed Francis to come over and see him.  How would his lips have felt on his tear-stained cheeks?  Would he hold him like he did when Wesley had fallen in through the window, enveloping and protective?

He finished the health bar.

Yes, he thought with a sigh like a ghost.  Good thing he hadn't been so stupid as to fall for him.


	9. II, i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What a cunning way to condescend  
> Once my lover, and now my friend  
> Oh, you creep up like the clouds,"
> 
> \-- Fiona Apple's /Shadowboxer/

“Harder,” he demanded into the man's pillow. His partner acquiesced and the bedposts' timid complaints became full-throttle shrieks as they scraped against the floor and crashed against the wall. The man was panting, open-mouthed gasps for air that Wesley found animalistic and off-putting.

“You feel so good,” he moaned.

“Please shut up,” ordered Wesley. He buried his head back into the pillow and tried to block out the other man's increasingly desperate grunts and whines.

 

The music was awful and the drinks were expensive. At most of the bars the queers of Manhattan frequented, neon and blacklight illuminated every ejaculated lapse of judgment and the whole place would smell like daddy issues. They'd served their purpose when Wesley had taken his first fledgling steps into homosexuality but they'd long since expired their novelty. They were where he had gone to find men as shyly interested in experimental romance as he had been. But he wasn't interested that in romance that night and hadn't been for a long time. So when the streets around the village and west end began to buzz with the chirps of the faux-hawked and the well-toned, Wesley went nowhere near them. He headed to where you went to find whatever lurked on the opposite side of the spectrum as love.

Maybe the music wasn't much better but at least the adolescent chit chat had been replaced with an ambiance of grown men playing chicken. Everything was a dare in the bar Wesley now sat in. Walking up and asking someone if they'd like a drink would get you called a faggot and you were more likely to walk home with a black eye than a one night stand for your trouble. There was a game to it and it was one Wesley played superbly. He sat facing away from the door and the pool tables and drank his first gin and tonic in perfect solitude. The bartender was gigantic and whatever parts weren't covered in body hair had tattoos in its stead but he was still less intimidating to most of the patrons than the brunette in the suit with the expensive watch.

“Wouldn't kill you to smile,” a man said as he placed something blue with a cherry in it at Wesley's elbow. Fisk's right hand man didn't move a muscle.

“It would kill you to keep bothering me,” James stated simply before taking a sip of his gin. The other man shrugged and took back the blue offering in hopes of luring some easier game with it further down the bar. Wesley held in a sigh and tongued at the small crack in one of his bottom teeth that had been slowly but surely creeping down from the crown. He'd have to get that looked at eventually, he supposed. But he had much larger problems on his mind. The man in the black mask. He was even getting sick of the title, let alone the vigilante. They had enough to worry about with the Russians and the Japanese, maybe a handful of bothersome reporters and cops, but nothing that couldn't be handled with a few exchanges and firm offers. But the man in the black mask wasn't making any demands. He didn't want anything, and how can you reason with someone like that?

He stared in minor dismay at the pulp floating around the last little swig of his drink. With a forfeiting sigh, he set the tumbler aside and gestured for another.

“I hate when people do that,” said someone next to him. Wesley was intrigued by the familiar sentiment and decided to turn his head. The man who sat beside him had a body builder physique and buzzed short, black hair. He wore a tight fitting t-shirt that didn't do much for him in terms of the colour (who honestly wore orange after the age of whenever your eyesight develops?) but its goal of showcasing every nook and cranny of his pectorals and abs was a roaring success.

“You hate when people do what?” Wesley asked.

The man grinned and took a gulp of his beer. “Tell beautiful things like you to smile.”

Wesley rolled his eyes and turned back in his seat but the man continued.

“You don't gotta smile. You don't gotta do shit. You can snarl all you want, you'd still be gorgeous.”

The word struck him so hard the man might as well have thrown a bottle at his throat. Wesley adjusted his glasses and weakly thanked the bartender as his second gin and tonic was set down. The cold, crackling alcohol went down in a monsoon past down the ache that had begun spreading through his chest.

“Don't call me that,” he muttered.

The other man shrugged apologetically and placed a large hand onto Wesley's shoulder.

“What can I call you?”

 

They took the subway in silence, Wesley barely looking at him. The man's hand had been playing with the exploration of his new toy all night; from Wesley's arm down to his knee and now, as they rode the M train in an anesthetic silence, it was longingly caressing Wesley's thigh. Wesley had attempted to bat it away several times throughout the commute but had finally decided, as he wished he'd had that fifth gin, he didn't care. He even allowed the man to take his hand as he led him up the steps into his building. In the elevator, the man tried to kiss Wesley but he ducked subtly and looked away.

They were in the apartment that smelled like Old Spice and magazine paper and somehow, the furnishings achieved the same feeling as the odor. It was the decor of a homo that got blowjobs from women with too much makeup and who had thought until college that it was normal to fantasize about being at the bottom of a sweaty football pigpile. Wesley loathed it. He took a seat at the edge of the burgundy-leather couch and was expecting to be offered a drink, and was incredibly startled when the man lept on top of him.

The man used his knee to spread open Wesley's legs and he immediately began grinding their crotches together. Wesley could feel on his leg that his partner-to-be, while eager, was not in possession of anything you'd write to XL about. It was easier that way anyway, Wesley would have conceded, had he not been fighting off the mountainous man atop him. Their lips were crashing together and his stubble grated at Wesley's mouth. The protrusion in the other man's pants was becoming painful as it stabbed into the meat of Wesley's thigh over and over and finally Wesley supposed they better get on with it.

“You're so beautiful,” the man said as took off Wesley's jacket. His breath was thick with suds and Wesley had to look the other way to avoid it. He was starting to undo Wesley's buttons and he began to kiss down his chest towards his stomach.

“Don't do that,” Wesley snapped. The man's head bobbed down again, either willfully ignoring the order or too love-drunk to have heard it. Wesley grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up so that the two were face to face. The man's eyes were wide, his mouth open. Wesley put his other hand down to the man's crotch and started to rub in deep, agonizingly slow circles.

“I said,” Wesley whispered with ferocious, cold eyes. “Don't.” He jerked the man's cock. “Do.” He tightened his fistful of the man's hair. “That.” The man was moaning and a small wet spot was starting to form in his pants. “Understood?” Wesley asked lethally. The man nodded as best he could and Wesley let go. Before the landslide of kisses could begin again, Wesley grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt.

“Good. Now take me to your bedroom and fuck me.”

 

The man was undressed so fast, his zipper must have broken the sound barrier. Wesley had kept shirt on, though left open, and was in the process of removing his trousers when the man came up behind him. He shoved Wesley down onto the bed, ripped off his khakis, and tossed them into a wrinkled pile on the carpet. Wesley stiffened at the thought of ironing them tomorrow but more to his immediate concern was the man who had just fully removed Wesley's shirt. He sat up, still straddling Wesley, and started rooting around his bedside drawer for the condoms and lube.

He opened Wesley's legs a bit wider with his own and and went dip into him, kissing him all the while, but Wesley stopped him.

“Turn me over,” he instructed. The man looked disappointed.

“I want to see your face,” he said. Wesley stared at him with tightly closed lips until he shrugged and gingerly spun Wesley onto his stomach. “You have such an amazing ass,” he murmured and gave a volley of wet, breathy kisses to the back of Wesley's neck. He kept kissing him as his cock slowly entered Wesley. Wesley hissed quietly into the pillow but allowed the rush of tickled nerve endings and pressure to wash over him. The man's thrusts were gentle and his pillow talk was sugar-sweet.

“Harder,” he demanded into the man's pillow. His partner acquiesced and the bedposts' timid complaints became full-throttle shrieks as they scraped against the floor and crashed against the wall. The man was panting, open-mouthed gasps for air that Wesley found animalistic and off-putting.

“You feel so good,” he moaned.

“Please shut up,” ordered Wesley. He buried his head back into the pillow and tried to block out the other man's increasingly desperate grunts and whines. Finally it became too much. Wesley turned onto his side, bucking the man off.

“What's wrong?” the man asked. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Wesley sighed impatiently. “That's the problem.”

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	10. II, ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Almost always doing everybody good  
> Do I wanna do right, of course but  
> Do I really wanna feel I'm forced to?  
> Hell no.  
> I've acquired quite a taste  
> For a well-made mistake..."
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /A Mistake/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: torture

There were a handful of failed attempts at rougher sex but in the end, Wesley couldn't take the concern of the other party. He put his suit back on and left the man on the bed with a sorely unfulfilled cock. It was late, or early depending on how you wanted to look at it, but Wesley wasn't in the habit of going to bed. Still, he was too tired to feel angry or annoyed at how the evening had gone. It wasn't as if he was used to fantastic one night stands, or even regular ones, so keeping the disappointment at bay wasn't too difficult. All he wanted now was to get home and close his eyes. But only one of those was to happen that night.

He was approaching the cave-like entrance to the subway when a woman stepped out in front of him. She was thin, blonde, and wearing a hat that obscured most of her face as she asked:

“Excuse me, is this the E train?”

Wesley took a few steps closer to her and politely began to explain it wasn't and was halfway through asking where it was she was trying to go when she lifted her chin and smiled up at him. The words died in his throat as he stared at Karen Page. He slowly began to reach down for his gun.

“Miss Page--” he began. But he saw her eyes dart for an instant over his shoulder. He unholstered his piece and spun around but it wasn't fast enough. Something quick and powerful came at him and the rest was black.

 

Miles away and hours later, someone was knocking on Francis' door. The blond had just gotten out of the shower and was brewing coffee when he heard it, weak but wild. His heart turned into a boulder inside his chest. He almost forgot to grab his gun as he cautiously approached the door. Francis leaned against the wall beside the door and held his gun tight.

“Who is it?” he called in a deep, warning voice. The response was small and spluttering. He took a quick peek through the peep hole and what he saw yanked a loud gasp from deep in his chest. He threw open the door and a beaten, tattered James Wesley fell across the threshold into his arms. Blood was caked from his nose down across both his lips and one of his cheekbones was a blotchy rainbow of blues and purples. Wesley was awake but his breathing was shallow. Francis laid him on his couch and frantically pet the hair away from Wesley's eyes and tried to get him talking. Several times, each repetition with increasing urgency, he asked Wesley what was wrong; who had done this; what did he need?

“I'll call Fisk,” Francis decided in a panicked daze. Wesley, silent and near motionless until that moment, reached out and took Francis by the wrist and shook his head. “James,” Francis begged. “We need to get you to a doctor.” Wesley shook his head again. Francis knelt down on the floor so he could look into Wesley's eyes. Wesley's one hand remained on his wrist and Francis took the other in his own. Wesley's cloudy blue eyes looked up into Francis' and his lips parted in his first attempt to speak. A cough came first but his morose words soon followed.

“I'm sorry.”

Francis' brow furrowed and he put his forehead to Wesley's. “No,” he insisted softly. “No, you don't have to apologize for anything.” James tried to shake his head but Francis stilled him with a slow, warm kiss on the top of his brunette curls.

“Francis,” he whispered as his eyes closed and the room vanished beneath the cold, dark curtain of unconsciousness.

 

The ropes had burned with each renewed effort to free himself of them. Both his ankles and wrists were bound to a rickety wooden chair. His glasses had been removed so all he was able to make out around him were the drip-stained cement walls and rusty pipes nearest him. There were murmurs from somewhere behind him and a deep, stinging ache in his head. He couldn't help but utter a soft moan and immediately the murmurs stopped. There was the sound of high heels clacking and knuckles cracking and Wesley's heart was pounding so hard he could almost see it through his shirt.

Before him now stood Karen Page, her arms crossed and her pink lips smirking; and the man in the black mask. Wesley took a deep breath. This day was bound to come eventually, he had told himself thousands of times since he began working for Wilson Fisk. Since he had found out what sort of dealings his employer had parts in. This day had to come; how could it not? He had expected it from the Japanese, if truth be told, perhaps a fumbling attempt from the Russians would not have been out of the question, but the man in black was a surprise. He was a man Wesley had yet to figure out entirely but he knew one thing: the man asked questions and the man got answers. He'd seen enough of Fisk's other men get thrown off roofs and have their faces turned inside out to know this man was used to the kind of game you had to play in Hell's Kitchen. But he wasn't used to men like Wesley, ones who actually gave a damn about something other than themselves. When someone didn't want to squeal on Fisk, it was usually due to threats. It was usually out of fear for their families, their loved ones. Wesley couldn't be bothered with any of that. If they burned down his flat, if they took the suit off his back he wouldn't be shaken out of his true commitment. Wesley would never betray Wilson Fisk, not out of fear, but out of the devotion he had for his only friend. He wouldn't break for the man in the black mask or for anyone else. And that was just something the man in black was going to have to figure out for himself.

Wesley forced a smile. “Will Miss Page be administering the nipple clamps attached to the car battery or are you planning on having all the fun yourself?”

Karen walked close and put her face inches from Wesley's. “You think we wouldn't?”

“No,” he promised. “No, I'm quite aware of the predicament I'm in.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you, Miss Page?”

Her lower lip was trembling and her skin was reddening. “I'm aware that the man who hired someone to kill me in my sleep is sitting tied up beneath me in a place where no one is going to hear him scream.”

He nodded to himself. “I knew there was something not so innocent about you, Miss Page. But let me ask you,” he tilted his head and gave her a concerned glance. “Have you ever tortured anyone before? With something other than your coffee, I mean.”

“I haven't,” she admitted. She reeled her arm back and slapped him with all the strength she could muster across his face. His head jerked to the side and his eyes watered. “But I'm thinking I could get the hang of it pretty quick.”

Wesley tried to adjust his jaw and the man in black stepped between him and Karen. “Karen,” he said. He turned his head to her and reminded her in a low voice, “I said you watch. I didn't say you could participate.” A bit louder, but still aimed at Karen, the man said: “This isn't about revenge. We don't deal out our own justice and judgment.” He turned to Wesley. “But we get information.”

Wesley kept his gaze steady. “What happens when you don't though?” The man stayed quiet. “Rumour has it that you thrust one our men's heads down onto a spike like you were Vlad the Impaler. The entire city thinks you decapitated Anatoly and left his body for his little brother to find. Not to mention that poor police officer who was in critical condition.” Wesley sighed. “But we all know none of that's true. See,” Wesley licked his lips and laughed ever so softly. “if you were every bit the monster everyone thinks you are, I still wouldn't tell you anything. But I don't think you're a killer. I think you want to be,” he assured. “But you're not. And it's such a shame.”

The man in the mask took two, thundering footsteps towards him. He stared down at his captive and while his chest was heaving, his voice remained steady.

“I know you're not afraid of me,” he said. “I know I can go to town on you all night, and I will,” he smiled sweetly, “but it won't get me anywhere. I know you'll keep your mouth shut out of some bizarre loyalty to a man who doesn't give a shit about you.”

Wesley blinked and felt his jaw begin to tighten but he forced the smile to stay on his face.

The man knelt between Wesley's legs and cocked his head. “Maybe you won't tell me where he is, or what his next move is, but could you tell me how?” The man got close. “How can you do what you do when you know just how expendable you are?”

Wesley rolled his eyes.

“No,” the man tutted, “I mean it. How? You're not an unintelligent man,” he paused, “Normally. So you must know no matter how many good restaurants you take Fisk to or whatever pretty suit you pick out for him, the second anything happens to you; you'll be replaced.”

Wesley's eyes were cold as the bottom of the ocean yet the man went on.

“He'd be devastated, for a week or two, but come on.” He smiled again. “You know Fisk better than I do, but, if I had to guess; he'd have another James Wesley inside of two weeks.”

Wesley could feel the blood pumping through his veins so hard that it was like the ropes around his wrists were tightening.

“Is this supposed to make me break?” he asked with a voice like velcro being rubbed the wrong way. “We have a good cry and I switch teams?”

“I don't want you on my team,” the man in the black mask growled. “And you know what? I don't think Fisk does either. You've been knocked out a long time now and you know how many men Fisk's sent looking for you? You know the bounty that's been put on the man who's captured his right hand man?” Wesley looked up at him. “Nothing. Fisk has done absolutely nothing to get you back.”

Wesley swallowed hard and didn't allow himself to break eye contact. “We'll see,” Wesley managed.

The man chuckled softly and stood back up. “We'll see,” he repeated after Wesley and began to hit.

 

“James,” Francis pleaded, lightly patting Wesley's cheek. “Wake up, come on. I know you don't want me to call a doctor but you gotta wake up.” The brunette stirred but his eyes wouldn't open. “Please,” Francis whispered as he cupped Wesley's face in his hands. “Let me help you, James. Please...” The last word was caught by a choke in his throat. He leaned down and kissed him again on the forehead, this time not moving his lips from Wesley's clammy skin and allowing a tear to fall from down onto Wesley's brow.


	11. II, iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He makes my heart a cinemascope screen  
> Showing a dancing bird of paradise  
> He excites me: must be like the genesis of rhythm,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Hot Knife/

The past few months had been normal. He'd shared a few drinks with friends, a few orgasms with beautiful women, and the paychecks kept coming. Each act of violence he witnessed dazed him less, though the awful bitterness they inspired in his chest never went away completely. The first time he'd fired a gun at someone while under the employment of Wilson Fisk, he'd rectified it with himself by observing the man he had shot had not been by any accounts a good man. As long as they were bad guys, he told himself, right? But ever since the man in the black mask had arrived on the scene, the line between good and bad had become murkier. There were rumours circulating about the man—rumours that Francis couldn't allow himself to believe. Facts and fictions were becoming so entwined and incestuous with themselves that Francis slowly found himself caring about the truth less and less. Soon, he fired his gun without thinking twice. He intimidated people when he was told to. He hurt people under the lazy guise of the greater good his employer kept insisting upon. Francis was glad for the first time in his life that his older brother wasn't alive to see what he'd become.

The idea that Francis was not a good person was unusual. It was so far-fetched he had a fairly simple time eschewing it from his mind except for the hazy hours that snuck between him and a good night's sleep. It was almost as unusual to consider his employer was not a good person. The lurking implications of what this all meant for James were kind enough to only come in the form of nightmares. He'd dreamt once that the two of them were cleaning up a crime scene. A Russian had been decapitated and left for them to dispose of. Francis had stood there watching as James had snipped off the corpse's toes with wire cutters. James had then looked up at him with an irritated, raised eyebrow. “Are you going to help me or not?” he'd asked. He'd woken up with a horribly upset stomach and sweat-drenched sheets.

One thing that upset him the most was the less he permitted himself to worry about the lines he may have been crossing, the more fun he had crossing them. It had never been easier for him to get women back home, for him to break personal workout records, or for him to be the life of the party when he invited the guys out on the town. He put on his new found confidence whenever he dressed in one of his recently obtained, obscenely expensive suits. That's what he told himself. The truth was, it was hard to be upset about the tedious or the mundane when you knew what it sounded like when you broke a man's collar bone with your foot.

That morning in the shower, Francis had been singing loudly to himself and to the thoughts that awaited silence before infiltrating his mind. Nothing could go wrong, he thought. Nothing was allowed to. If he had to keep his shit together, then so did everything else. But try telling that to the bloody mess that lie on his couch minutes later.

James was drifitng off. Francis had basic medical training and while it wasn't enough for him to guess whether or not James had a concussion, it was enough for him to know he couldn't take that chance. Nothing could happen to him, Francis thought so furiously he felt his head begin to ache. Not him. Not him...

“Just resting my eyes, Francis,” Wesley muttered with a forced chuckle. Francis breathed out a breathless laugh of relief as Wesley opened his eyes and smiled weakly up at him. Francis still had one of his hands gently propping up Wesley's face and he used the other to carefully brush a loose brown curl out of Wesley's eyes. The beaten man smiled again at the gesture and cautiously placed one of his own hands atop Francis'.

His gaze averted to the floor but Francis took his chin between two of his fingers and pointed his face back up. The look on Francis' face felt like an embrace. The pain of the bruises and cuts subsided and all Wesley felt was: cared for. Their faces were so close that their breaths intertwined; Wesley's shallow and fast, Francis' slow and ready. Wesley couldn't remember the last time he'd been so close to someone. It was terrifying how safe he felt in Francis' hands. It was horrifying how loved he felt under his smile.

“Forgiveness is not something I ask for too often,” Wesley whispered, his big blue eyes trepid with shame. But Francis smiled even wider and moved his fingers from Wesley's chin to the back of his neck. Wesley felt a shiver building in him and found he couldn't keep eye contact with the other man no matter how he tried.

“Well,” Francis said softly. “It's a good thing I already forgave you then, isn't it?”

A ghost of a laugh escaped Wesley's lips before Francis stopped them with his own. It was impossible for one man to feel this euphoric, Wesley thought. He didn't deserve this adoration, this warmth, this perfection radiating off Francis and engulfing Wesley's entire mind and body the deeper the kiss became. Months ago, their kisses had been frantic. Frenzied and almost bestial. Now, each embrace was like a fresh gulp of air after suffocating for so long. Wesley couldn't help but let out a soft, though increasingly loud, moan each time Francis' lips went back for more. He felt paralyzed in the best way he could have imagined. Francis' hand stayed on the back of Wesley's neck—he couldn't let Wesley go, not even for an instant. He planted kisses gently all over Wesley's mouth, not wanting to miss an inch of him.

Wesley reached up and put his hands on Francis' chest, then allowed them to explore the carved out maps of the man's muscles. Francis got goosebumps as Wesley's fingers traced all over his biceps and shoulders. He let out a soft purr of pleasure and gave Wesley's lower lip a nibble. Underneath him, Francis felt Wesley's back arch and the grip on his arms tighten. There were so many things Francis had stayed up all night imagining doing to Wesley, and having him do, but he knew in the back of his mind he had to go slowly tonight. Not just for the sake of Wesley's current physical condition but for both of their emotional sakes. This was everything Francis could ever ask for, but while he wanted it to last forever, what had transpired after their last embrace couldn't happen again. His heart couldn't take it.

It physically pained Francis to allow their lips to part. Wesley sat up slightly, instantly, with his eyes still closed and his lips still hungry. It was torture for Francis to have to stop him. Wesley opened his eyes and looked at Francis with frightened disappointment. Francis had a hand on the other man's shoulder. He wasn't pushing him away, but he had to make sure.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

One of Wesley's eyebrows raised. “I'm not doing this out of blood loss if that's what--”

“Will you be okay,” he interrupted softly. “After we do this?”

Something ugly was beginning to rise in Wesley's chest. He leaned away and allowed Francis' hand to fall. The dreamy look in his eyes was fading.

“Oh don't make a big--”

“Don't,” Francis begged quietly. “James, I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable or...” He debated saying it. “Defensive. But...” Wesley's eyes were getting harder. “After last time, I need to know.” The first time he tried to put his hand back on Wesley's shoulder, the other man dodged, but the second time Francis was permitted the physical contact. Wesley's gaze was becoming more fragile, dangerously close to breaking. “James,” Francis said with such a tone of voice that Wesley could feel his heart tearing. It was Wesley disappointing his loved ones all over again.

“I always knew you were handsome,” Francis said. “I always knew I respected you. But that day, when I saw you in the twilight,” his hand retreated back into his own lap as he took a deep breath and sighed it back out slowly. “I knew I'd fallen in love with you.”

Wesley couldn't gulp. His eyes couldn't blink. His heart couldn't beat.

“Hopelessly, completely,” Francis laughed a little, “pathetically in love with you.” The two looked at each other. “I need to know,” Francis whispered. “James. Is it safe to love you?”

Wesley felt searing, stinging tears wanting to form behind his glasses but he absolutely refused to allow it. Instead he felt dizzy and weightless in a way he couldn't hope to control.

“I don't know,” he said before he could edit himself. He looked at Francis and the expression on his face was so adorably apologetic and despairing that Francis had no other choice than to pull him close and hold him tightly against his chest. “Don't,” Wesley implored resignedly, but Francis didn't let go. Wesley rested his head on Francis' chest and the blond wrapped his arms around him. The two men stayed like that for what could have been forever but eventually Francis heard Wesley murmur:

“I want to try.”

Francis looked down at the man whose face was still battered and blue in spots. “I want to try too,” he said.

They looked at each other with smiles like two birds learning to fly. Wesley leaned forward and started kissing Francis again, this time with more force than ever before.

“I want you,” Francis confessed in between moans.

Wesley reached down to rub Francis' thigh, so thinly covered by pajama bottoms. His hand stayed there a moment before he moved it to Francis' aching crotch and started to caress the impressive firmness between his thighs with agonizing delicacy.

“Then take me,” Wesley whispered.

 

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...

 


	12. II, iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You moved like honey  
> In my dream last night  
> Yeah, some old fires  
> Were burning,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Slow Like Honey/

“No,” Francis said softly.  The shocked protest on Wesley’s face didn’t last long.  Francis moved Wesley’s hand away and instead put his own onto the other man’s zipper.  Wesley held in a gasp.  How was it that Francis wasn’t even moving a muscle but it was the most intoxicating touch he’d ever known?  Wesley was stiff everywhere but his head had floated back onto the couch as he arched up, offering himself to Francis’ hands.  The blond kissed Wesley’s cheek and whispered into his ear:

“You’re still hurt.  We have all the time in the world, but right now?”  He began to move his fingers down, slowly undoing the zipper.  “Let me help you relax.”  Wesley bit his lip and tilted his head back as his belt was undone. Between his legs, his cock was firm with a longing ache.  The self-consciousness was overwhelming.  He hadn’t cared how he appeared naked to a lover in years.  He hadn’t been sober for the event in quite some time either. But the soft red boxers that hugged Wesley tight revealed to Francis just how welcome his touch was. He smiled and, as he placed a final, deep kiss on Wesley’s lips, he reached inside his boxers and began to sooth James Wesley.

Francis’ hand took James’ cock firmly, in a gentle up and down motion. He had never been with a man before, but somehow Francis knew what to do.  Pleasing James came as naturally to him as an embrace. James’ eyes were shut and his mouth was hanging open ever so slightly.  Francis could hear the other man’s breaths starting to quicken and each fresh whimper for air made the blond’s own cock even harder.  He was making those sounds because of him, Francis thought in a state that was almost high.  He leaned down and spat in his palm and renewed his efforts with a newfound vigor. Wesley cried out and clutched at the couch under him.  His thighs shot upwards with the hot, wet firmness of Francis’ hand.  He could feel every finger as they slid up and around his cock. The improvised lubricant allowed Francis to start getting creative.  He twirled his hand in a clockwise motion gently now as he caressed James. 

“Fr-Francis!” Wesley panted in a voice the blond had never heard come from the man’s lips before.  It was so frantic, cracking a touch at the end like a teenager.  Francis smiled and suddenly an urge he’d only ever had in dreams took him.  Keeping one hand at work between Wesley’s legs, Francis maneuvered himself to be kneeling directly between James’ knees with his head and waist level.  His other hand went up to James’ undone belt and started to yank down the man’s trousers just a touch more.  Wesley was too far away in paradise to know what was happening before it had already transpired. 

Without giving it a second’s thought, Francis had licked his lips and leaned in. He licked around the rim of James’ tip, sending a tickle that shot up Wesley’s spine like a lightning bolt. He kept his hand in a steady, strong motion lower near the base of James’ cock and he licked up from his hand all the way up Wesley’s shaft.  James’ mouth was now fully agape, his grip on the couch becoming more white-knuckled with each little tease.  Francis kissed up the thick, smooth member until he was sure James couldn’t take any more. With a smile, Francis looked up at Wesley and took him in his mouth.  The reaction he saw would stick with Francis for the rest of his life.

Other men had been in Francis’ position enough times for Wesley to think the entire act was a tad overrated.  It was an exercise, it was foreplay.  Never before had it even occurred to Wesley that this could, in and of itself, be an ultimate form of pleasure.  Francis’ lips were soft, pillowy.  His tongue, fiery and slick, was twirling in mind-melting circles around Wesley and his hand kept pumping all the while.  Wesley realized his legs had begin to tremble while his throat was getting dry from the constant gasping and crying out.  One of his hands had shot out from the sofa to grasp the back of Francis’ head. He grabbed a fistful of blond hair and held his lover there gently but insistently.  His hips had begun to thrust up against Francis’ ardent mouth and into his tight, skillful throat. 

Francis’ eyes were watering but he had no intention of stopping. He gripped Wesley’s thigh tightly with his free hand and began moaning into his cock.  The vibrations from his tongue and throat echoed up in such a way that Wesley felt his entire world begin to move. 

“Is this—” Wesley breathed, barely able to shove the words out. He looked down at Francis. “Is this alright?”

Francis nodded, his mouth still full with James’ cock, and “Mm-hmm”ed so that an even stronger vibration shot up between Wesley’s legs.

“Jesus, Francis,” Wesley whimpered.  He let go of Francis’ hair and went back to clutching the couch with both hands. His hips were rocking more urgently now. His breath was less like inhales and exhales and more like gasps and screams.  Each expulsion of breath was louder and more desperate. At the beginning, the sounds escaping Wesley’s lips had sounded like “Francis!  Francis!” but towards the end, they didn’t resemble anything much at all other than a violent plea for release.

It was all Francis could do to not chuckle.  He smiled, with a heart more full of contentment and bliss than he had ever thought possible.  It had been all he wanted to do to make James Wesley happy and now, tucked warmly between the man’s legs, Francis could hear and feel first hand just how well he was succeeding.  His lips took in more of him, his hands squeezed tighter, and his tongue lapped up every inch of him he could.  He wanted all of him. He wanted to make James feel the way he’d made Francis feel for so long.

All the while for Wesley, it was a perfection so beyond compare he barely had the cognizance to appreciate it let alone the words. What he felt blasted beyond all memories of joy, all hopes of climax.  He felt loved.  No matter what happened his entire life before that moment, in that instance, Wesley felt cherished and taken care of.  He dared take another peek down and saw those flawless lips wrapped around his cock, that mouth murmuring the most pornographic moans into his crotch. Wesley’s eyes drifted and he took in the shifting and tensing of Francis’ muscles through the peep-holes that the blond’s tank top allowed.  His shoulders moving forward and back, his chest heaving, his biceps relaxing and tightening with each fresh thrust down.  The look on Francis’ face was so peacefully delighted, Wesley couldn’t help but question whether the whole thing was real.  But soon it was made quite real enough.

The orgasm shocked Wesley almost an inch off the couch. His cry was startled, loud, and prolonged over almost a solid minute.  Francis gave a soft murmur of surprise as the searing, salty finale seeped into his throat.  He swallowed it down then lapped up gently for the rest.  Each tiny flick of his tongue shot Wesley back into a miniature climax until finally, the two were soaking in sweat and the brunette man had nothing left to give. He was panting furiously as he looked down in time to see the blond licking the cum from his lips. For the first time, their eyes met, and Francis smiled and gave his lips an extra lick.  Wesley stared at him, bewildered, for a moment before he laughed. Not with malice, not with sarcasm or bitterness, James Wesley laughed in pure joy for the first time in what felt his entire life.  Francis beamed up at him and cocked his head to the side and sighed as he took in the sight of James’ smile. 

Wesley leaned forward with his hand outstretched towards Francis’ crotch but the blond man took Wesley by the shoulders and pushed him back gently onto the couch. 

“You need some rest,” Francis chided sweetly as the sun rose.

“It’s fine,” Wesley began to object but Francis gave a playfully stern look. Wesley rolled his eyes and searched for an excuse to not be taken care of.  “Mr. Fisk will—”

Francis kissed him and Wesley pretended to put up a fight before the blond pulled back and rubbed Wesley’s hair.

“Mr. Fisk,” Francis said, “will get a call from me saying you’re sick. And you, Mr. Employee of the Decade—” Wesley let a giggle escape his mouth. It sounded odd even to him but between the night he’d had and the orgasm he’d just experienced, he figured he was allowed to sound a little foolish.  Francis took Wesley’s legs and hoisted them up effortlessly so that Wesley was on his back. 

“You are going to take it easy today.”

“Francis,” he whined.  But the blond had already gone back into his bedroom.  Wesley groaned when he saw the other man coming back with a pillow and a blanket. “Really, you don’t have to,” Wesley muttered as Francis placed the pillow under Wesley’s head and the blanket snugly around Wesley’s frame.  Francis began tucking the blanket in under him but Wesley’s protests were too wriggly.

“I have to tuck you in,” Francis teased.

“Stop it!” Wesley ordered, squirming to avoid the tickling hands assaulting him from either side.

“I’m sorry,” Francis smiled, “I’m sorry, sir, but I must. It is part of my job description after all.”

“No it’s not!” Wesley laughed and swatted at Francis’ hands. Francis was laughing too hard to keep the onslaught up and the two smiled into one another’s eyes for a moment as they calmed down.  Francis leaned in and gave Wesley one more kiss, on the forehead, and got up to get dressed.

“Please get some sleep,” he said.  “I need you all rested up for what I’m going to do to you later.” Francis winked and left Wesley in the living room with inspiration for the sweetest dreams.

 

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	13. II, v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Give me the first taste  
> Let it begin  
> Heaven cannot wait forever  
> Darling, just start the chase  
> I'll let you win  
> But you must  
> Make the endeavour,"
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /First Taste/

But sleep did not come. Francis was out the door, all suited up, and Wesley was alone in the cozy but not cluttered flat. The ache in his head had subsided since a few hours ago but that didn’t mean he was feeling aces. He groaned and slowly removed himself from the fuzzy cocoon Francis had left him in. There had to be Aspirin or Tylenol around somewhere. It felt like snooping, so Wesley tried to avoid unnecessary searches into spots he deemed overly personal. But places like the kitchen or the living room didn’t feel particularly private to begin with. It was only the invasive locales where he had to look so the intrusive feeling persisted. Wesley entered the bathroom and began rummaging through the drawers under the sink and behind the mirror. Vitamins, supplements with promises of being Gluten free or Vegan free or whatever it was these days. Wesley rolled his eyes as he shoved a tub of protein mix out of his way. Other than that and an assortment of hair products and colognes (“Calvin Klein, Francis? Really?”), the comb-through of the bathroom had proved fruitless.

Funny how a man can have his face in your crotch less than an hour ago but entering his bedroom can still feel overly intimate. The door was open but it was like there was an electrified fence between Wesley and the doorframe. He was stricken with the urge to remove his shoes, which he was frankly surprised he hadn’t done sooner. Once he was down to his socks, Wesley took a cautious step across the threshold. His eyes darted around, wary of a seemingly inevitable photograph of a girlfriend or a box of whips and dog collars. Not that he’d be exactly opposed to the latter but finding something like that without permission would be an embarrassment he wasn’t sure he could overcome—not to mention the tackiness of keeping all of one’s sex toys together without any form of organization or cleanliness but perhaps his mind was wandering. But, to Wesley’s relief, everything seemed fairly innocuous.

There were indeed photographs—one of a young, blond man with a strong jaw and big, deep set green eyes almost made Wesley’s heart stop but he discovered from the next photo that it must be Francis’ brother. There were only three frames on the bedside table. Two family portraits, one of the young man by himself. Wesley couldn’t help but take an envious look at the two group shots. They all looked so happy. One was when Francis and his brother were much younger. Wesley smirked at the beaming, excited young Francis who couldn’t have been older than ten. He was hugging the other blond boy tight and his brother was the only one not looking at the camera—he was smiling down at Francis. Wesley felt the smallest twinge, like stepping onto a needle, as he imagined with a ludicrous sense of wonder what Rebecca would look like smiling that way at him. The next photograph had been taken quite a few years later. Francis looked younger but more or less the same as Wesley knew him, but the older brother was almost unrecognizable. His blond hair had been buzzed, his smile was gone, and his posture was like a soggy leaf. Both parents, who’d looked rosy-cheeked and proud in the previous photo, were gaunt and smiling with looks of hopeless prayer. Wesley wondered why on earth Francis would keep this dreadful thing by his bed.

Further reckonings were put on hold as he opened the top drawer under the photographs and found a rogue bottle of Aleve jostling like a pool ball against the lube bottle and condoms. Wesley sighed with disgust as he discovered the Aleve had become slightly slick with some lube that had leaked out of the other bottle. His lip curled but he popped it open and swallowed one of the blue pills down. He placed the bottle back and exited the bedroom hastily. Wesley retook his place on the couch but, despite being awake a good twenty-four hours or more, he couldn’t get drowsy. His boxers were still damp from the saliva and cum of he and Francis’ passion. All of his clothes in fact felt like they were sticking to him. He was starting to feel like Goldilocks and the Three Bears but perhaps a few minutes in Francis’ shower would do him good. He made his way to the bathroom once more and removed his jacket, socks, and dress shirt. He was in his undershirt and trousers and felt apologetic undressing in another man’s bathroom. No, in any other man’s bathroom he wouldn’t be bothered. But Francis’ bathroom… It was just another way to be naked in front of Francis, but being without clothes was nothing compared to the emotional vulnerability he had flung at the other man. It was so much at once, Wesley thought with a furrowed brow. But Francis couldn’t know everything about him. In fact he may already know too much. How could Wesley expect Francis, or anyone in their right mind, to stay with him if they knew who he was? What he was? Useless, selfish, disgusting—

“Maybe a nap wouldn’t hurt after all,” Wesley thought. Daydreams and reality were starting to blend in his exhaustion. “Shower first,” he promised himself, “then a little lay down.” He removed the remainder of his attire and started the shower. Moments later James Wesley was alone in the cool water. He shut his eyes like he always did and let the pelting drops strike him face first. He let out a deep sigh and started to wash. Another habit was beginning to tug at him, one that had been with him his entire life. Every other form of self-consciousness would begrudgingly take their exit as James Wesley felt it in his throat, a soft hum first, but soon the song would fling itself free from his lips. He’d always had a penchant for the dreary and the longing, the kind of smoky songs that would be right at home in a film noir. “This isn’t broadway, Jimmy!” Kate had squawked through the bathroom door when he’d been a little boy. In the tub he’d been contemplating the chipping paint on his rubber duck’s smile while singing Billie Holiday and while it annoyed Kate to no end to hear her little brother’s ruckus while she was trying to put in her night-time curlers, she had to admit (to herself of course) she was a tad impressed at the little squirt’s vocal range. But today, in Francis’ shower, it wasn’t a melancholy melody that took Wesley but a song full of bliss and confidence. Paloma Faith was channeled and propelled across the small bathroom’s walls. Maybe he did it all these years to shut out the other voices that would corner him in his solitude, maybe not, but whatever the reason it always brought a smile to the man’s lips. That morning was no exception. He was about halfway through the application of the shampoo when—

“Wow!” The plastic bottle shot out of his hands and crashed off the showerhead and back into his shin. Wesley’s heart was pounding too hard for him to feel the pain and he popped his head out from behind the shower curtain to see Francis leaning back against the sink with a smile on his face.

“You have a great voice,” the blond man would have said. He made it about two syllables out before the shampoo bottle was launched at his head. Francis ducked and Wesley yanked the curtain back in front of his face. “Jesus!” Francis cried as the bottle ricocheted off the mirror and onto his shoes. “What was that for?”

“What are you doing here?” Wesley demanded.

“I live here,” Francis said as he picked up the shampoo. Wesley felt the shampoo start to leak into his eyes. A string of hissed curses wafted through the shower curtain and Francis couldn’t help chuckle a little.

“How long have you been here?” Wesley snapped. Singing was one thing. Singing and getting caught was another matter entirely. And for some reason, compliments made it infinitely worse. He heard some soft rustling from the other side of the curtain and Francis assured him: “Only a few minutes.”

"A few min—Christ,” Welsey groaned. He was viciously attacking the rest of the shampoo in his hair so he could leave the situation as quickly as possible. He was about to turn the nozzle off when the curtain opened. “Francis!” he yelled but when he turned around he saw the other man had already entered the shower, fully disrobed. The blond put his hand on Wesley’s to stop him from turning off the water.

“You’re not done yet,” he whispered and kissed Wesley softly on the mouth. The brunette’s heart was still pumping with embarrassment and anger but Francis had a way of making those thoughts disappear. “How’s your head?” Francis asked quietly. Wesley could hardly do more than nod before he flung himself at the other man.

Wesley shoved Francis up against the tile wall and reached down to cup his hard cock. Francis’ head leaned back as he let out a soft, low moan. Wesley’s hand went to work expertly, just the right amounts of pressure and speed to make Francis’ knees buckle. But Wesley put an arm around Francis’ waist and held him up as he kissed his neck and shoulders. He started to suck on Francis’ adam’s apple as his hand moved harder up and down his cock. But suddenly everything stopped. Wesley’s touch slowed to an almost nonexistent pace, and his lips barely grazed the skin of Francis’ throat as he whispered:

“You like sneaking up on people?” Francis whimpered and tried to thrust himself up into Wesley’s palm but the brunette moved quickly out of the way. He bit down hard on Francis’ shoulder.

“I asked you a question.”

“No,” Francis panted. “Fuck… James,” his words trailed into an agonized whine. Wesley gave his cock one satisfying stroke but immediately went back to hardly touching him.

“But you’re not going to do it again, are you?” Wesley threatened softly into Francis’ ear. The blond smirked down at him for a split second.

“Maybe.” Wesley didn’t have time to furrow his brow before Francis flipped him onto his back against the wall and held his wrists up over his head.

Wesley struggled furiously to lower his arms but Francis’ hold was a deadlock. Francis pushed their hips together and Wesley felt their cocks, wet with precum and the hot water, sliding against one another. It was astonishing torment. Wesley looked up into Francis’ eyes, impressed and exhilaratingly frightened. He was about to ask what Francis was going to do when their lips crashed together. The kiss was so hard Wesley let out the smallest whimper of pain but his cock twitched as it became even harder.

“You get to tell everybody else what to do out there,” Francis growled into his ear as he gave it a nibble. Wesley moaned. “Well we’re not out there. And right now,” he let go of Wesley’s wrists with one hand and kept them high above the brunette’s head with the other. “You’re not going to go anywhere until I say so.” His hand flew down and he yanked one of Wesley’s thighs up so that it was wrapped around his waist. He caressed Wesley’s firm, soft leg all the way from his knee up to his ass where he gave it a firm slap. Wesley’s eyes clenched shut and his mouth shot open. He wrestled again under the hand keeping his arms up—not out of any remote desire to escape, but to feel just how powerless he was. If this had been anyone else he would be disgusted, horrified, violated. But he knew Francis was only going to go as far as Wesley wanted. And Wesley didn’t just want this, he needed it desperately.

“Do that again,” Wesley begged breathlessly. Francis smiled as gave the man’s ass another good smack. Wesley moaned loudly and his hips writhed up against Francis’. Francis dove his head into Wesley’s neck, bombarding the man’s throat with kisses, licks, and soft bites. He finally let go of Wesley’s arms and picked the man up so that the brunette could wrap both his legs around Francis’ waist. Wesley had never felt so weightless before. He held Francis tight and gasped with a cry that turned into a deafening howl of pleasure as Francis’ mouth moved down from his neck to one of his nipples.

“Don’t!” he screamed out. Francis jerked his head back, offering Wesley a worried look. “No, no,” Wesley assured, “It’s fine—it’s—it’s—” Francis smiled and gave his nipple another swirl with his tongue. Wesley was practically dry-humping the muscular blond man by the time the hot water suddenly ran out. Ice-cold bullets of water pounded down on them and the two men shouted. Francis put Wesley down and Wesley scrambled with the nozzle. Soon the two were standing dripping, naked, and hard in the quiet shower.

“Should we—” Francis panted.

“Yes,” Wesley agreed fervently. Francis grabbed Wesley and picked him up like a bride being taken across a threshold and the two men booked it towards the bedroom.

 

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED...


	14. II, vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love ridden, I've looked at you  
> With the focus I gave to my birthday candles...  
> And baby, I've wished for you..."
> 
> \--Fiona Apple's /Love Ridden/

They crashed like rogue pool balls into various tables and doorframes on their way to the bedroom.  Francis threw Wesley down onto the bed and was practically growling with desire. Wesley, on his back underneath Francis’ hungry gaze, suddenly realized this was the first time Francis had seen him entirely naked.  Shame flushed to his face and he moved unconsciously to cover his stomach with one of his arms but Francis got there first.  He took Wesley’s chin between two fingers and gave his forehead a soft, long kiss.

 “Do you remember what I told you, back in that house?” he whispered. Wesley nodded but couldn’t look at him. “What did I say to you?” When Wesley still offered no reply, Francis kissed his head again and nuzzled his cheek with his nose. “What did I say?”

“You said I was…”  Wesley rolled his eyes. “You said I was gorgeous.” The last word tasted so bitter coming from his own lips.  But Francis kissed those lips deeply and warmly.

“It’s still true,” he smiled.  Wesley was about to roll his eyes again but Francis put a knee between Wesley’s legs and spread his thighs wide so he could slide between them.  His large, rough hands went to work caressing Wesley from his shoulder down to his waist.  From his hips down to his thighs.  In between their kisses, Wesley took Francis’ hand and moved it onto his neck. He felt the man recoil.

“I don’t want to hurt—”

Wesley kissed his mouth shut and whispered that it was okay. Francis licked his lips and gazed down at the body beneath him.  How could he refuse any desires coming from such a perfect man?  His brown hair was still wet from the shower, some curls beginning to pop up more unruly than Francis had ever seen on him before. His juicy thighs were glistening with water droplets and sweat, his chest was heaving with cautious, wanton breaths. Everything about James Wesley in that moment was pure, vulnerable, and Francis’. 

“Tighter.”

The blond steadied the hand on Wesley’s throat and tightened his grip until the man let out a small gasp.  Once he could feel the pulse against his palm, he put his other hand down between his legs. Wesley was hard and throbbing already; all Francis had to do was cup his balls softly and the man went into a frenzied fit of moans.  Just when the moaning began to get too winded, Francis released Wesley’s throat and flipped him onto his stomach.  The ass in front of him was flawless.  Pert but plump, smooth and toned, just waiting for him.  He reached out and began rubbing with both hands as he leaned down to give the back of Wesley’s neck a slow kiss.

Wesley whimpered into the pillow.  The kiss sent gooseflesh down his back and the toughness of Francis’ hands kneading and squeezing his ass was enrapturing.  A moment of this gentle but ravenous touching went on before Wesley was yanked down across the sheets, bent over the edge of the bed. He looked back over his shoulder in a blend of panic and confusion and saw Francis kneeling behind him, between his legs.

“Francis!” He went to turn back around but the attempt was met with a hard, fast smack across his ass.  Wesley gritted his teeth with stinging pleasure and let himself go limp.  The defenselessness of his position embarrassed Wesley to the point where he wondered if he was blushing throughout his entire body.  Francis put his hands against the back of both Wesley’s thighs, with just a tad more force than was necessary.  Wesley felt his cock twitch up against the sheets.  The other man’s lips had the sensational quality of feeling at once cool and hot against Wesley’s thighs as he kissed up from the back of Wesley’s knees to the roundest part of his ass.  Every kiss sent more shivers through James Wesley until he realized he was clutching the sheets with a white-knuckled grip. More of Francis’ tongue was poking through his lips.  The kisses grew wetter as Francis’ mouth circled from the top of Wesley’s ass down between it. Wesley clenched his eyes shut. He knew what was going to happen, he knew he wanted it badly, but the embarrassment wouldn’t leave. He’d never let a man taste him there before and all the ways it could go wrong flooded his mind. He imagined Francis spitting in disgust, Francis realizing he wasn’t bisexual after all, Francis—Francis—

“Francis!” Wesley yelped as the man’s tongue circled around his hole and gave it a light flick.  The blond smiled and gave it another, slower, wetter lick.  He heard muffled whimpers and squeals echo down from the pillow above his head and he started really going to town.  Francis squeezed Wesley’s thighs tight and started rotating his head, flicking his tongue and even daring to slide the tip of it into Wesley. With the recent shower, things were still sliding and gliding easily and cleanly.  It tasted nothing like a woman, but the actions were similar and were getting similar results.  Wesley was screaming into the pillow, screaming Francis’ name and the most pornographic obscenities. Francis smiled so broad at the noises he was getting Wesley to make. His Wesley, he thought proudly, and gave the man’s ass another slap while he continued to lick and kiss.

Wesley’s cock was aching harder by the second.  He couldn’t take it.  He could have sworn he was going to come right there but Francis retreated and Wesley was allowed to turn himself back onto his back.  Francis gazed down at James’ tormented cock and grinned mischievously.

“Am I being mean enough?” he asked.  Wesley nodded feverishly.  “Not too mean though?”  Wesley shook his head with equal force.  “Because, if I do something you don’t like I want you too—”

Wesley sat up and crashed their lips together to shut him up. His fingernails dug into Francis’ shoulders and the blond let out a cry of pain.  The two were soon rolling on top of the sheets, each vying for dominance and release of the throbbing between their legs.  Wesley almost managed to top Francis but the blond got him into a hold on his back.  Wesley looked up at him with something between awe and disbelief.  Whatever the feeling was, it manifested itself into a small smile. Francis looked down and that smile, he knew, won him forever.

“I love you,” he said.  He’d said it before, that day.  He’d said it and Wesley had no idea what to say.  He had no delusions about deserving love, especially from a man like Francis. He still didn’t, and maybe he never would but, now, at least he knew exactly what to reply.  

“I love you too.”

Francis could do nothing but stare.  He felt something hot begin to sting his eyes and the feeling in his chest was like he was floating away into a sunrise. 

“I want to make love to you so badly.”

“Then do it,” Wesley teased with a smile.  Francis grinned and slid on a condom.  He got out some lube and then looked down bashfully at Wesley.

“I’ve never been with…”

“I figured.”

“Was the oral that bad?” Francis grinned.  Wesley laughed and went to adjust glasses that weren’t there.

“Do you…” Wesley inhaled deeply.  “Are you sure you want…?”

“There is nothing I have ever wanted more,” Francis said.

Wesley had been with many men but even by his standards, what lay between Francis’ legs was impressive.  He took the lube from Francis’ hands, squeezed some out and began caressing Francis’ cock. The man’s head arched back and Wesley was captivated by the curves of his profile.  His pillowy lips, his strong jaw and pronounced adam’s apple, his firm chest, and his intricately chiseled abdominal muscles. He really wants me? Wesley had to wonder at least once before stroking the lube on just a touch faster. Francis beamed and moaned. Wesley allowed himself to smile before applying a touch of lube up inside himself and lying down on his chest.

Francis turned him gently onto his back.  “I want to kiss you,” he said.  Normally Wesley would never have allowed himself to be taken in any position other than lying on his stomach (doggy style, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, missionary—whether giving or receiving, they all were hardly worth the effort for a sloppy one night affair) but then again, what about this with Francis was normal for him?

“I want to kiss you,” Francis repeated softly, placing Wesley’s thighs on either side of his hips as he gently touched his cock to James’ hole, “and never stop.” 

The two shared a kiss that could have lasted forever as their bodies entwined. Wesley immediately wrapped his legs around Francis’ waist and, with one hand, grabbed hold of Francis around his shoulders and, with the other, clutched wildly at one of the bedposts behind him.

The pain was all-consuming.  All Wesley saw were stars and all he felt was Francis’ huge cock shoving deeper and deeper inside of him.  Wesley felt small, powerless, and claimed—it had only been a matter of seconds and it was the best sex he’d ever had.  He felt Francis’ cock massaging ever inch of him from the inside.  Every new thrust of Francis’ hips inspired a new gasp from Wesley’s lips.

The filthiest things were coming out of Wesley’s mouth, Francis noticed as he smiled to himself.  The vocabulary on that man would make a sailor blush, but all it did for Francis was make him drive himself further into Wesley with more and more speed. It was tighter than any sex he’d ever had, and the pain of Wesley’s grip around him was almost enough to take his breath away.  He couldn’t help uttering something between a laugh and a deep moan.

“James, oh fuck James,” he kept panting.  Wesley pushed against him for a moment and Francis worried for an instant if he’d gone too hard or too rough but then Wesley’s legs were up over Francis’ shoulders.  And he’s flexible, Francis thought.  Jesus somebody up there likes me.

His hands latched onto Wesley’s thighs and held them firmly against his chest, a playful show of force.  Wesley tried to fight him a little just so Francis would fuck him harder.  Soon Francis was pounding into James so hard the bed shrieked against the wood floor, the walls groaned with each strike of the wildly bouncing bedframe.  If it had been a time of day when neighbours would have been home, they would have had an earful of nothing but the two men’s crying out each other’s names.

Francis’ cock slid up and out fast and hard, his hips rolling in small circles ever so slightly.  The massage on his cock was so tight, so warm and wet.  And the things Wesley was panting!  He’d never dreamt such a prim man would be able to talk like that! Every curse that passed through Wesley’s open, trembling lips brought Francis closer to climax until Francis was fucking him so ferociously he was starting to get rugburn on his knees from the sheets. 

“Such a slut, Francis,” Wesley whimpered.  “I’m such a…oh Christ, Francis!”  Wesley began to recognize the signs in his partner.  And he knew what he wanted.  “Come on me,” he ordered desperately.

The blond pulled out with animalistic obedience, whipped off the condom and began to rub his cock with frantic urgency.  Then Francis grabbed Wesley’s waist and flipped him onto his stomach, once again exposing that gorgeous ass.

“Jesus,” Francis practically growled.  He spanked Wesley hard enough to leave a red hand mark for the rest of the day and finally, Wesley heard a bellowing howl of release and felt a jet of burning hot cum splatter onto his ass.  Wesley felt so dirty, so used.  It was incredible.  He felt it drip down his cheeks and onto his thighs.  Francis meanwhile was paralyzed, straddled above him. 

“That was—” Francis could hardly breathe.  Wesley turned and gave Francis’ arm a nibble.

“Wipe me off,” he said.  Francis wobbled to the nightstand and grabbed a few tissues.  As Francis dabbed the mess off Wesley’s ass and legs, the brunette smirked over his shoulder.  Both men were still panting wildly for breath but Wesley managed:

“There is the small matter of reciprocation to attend to.”

Francis smiled.  “Anything.”

“Do you remember this morning, Francis?”

“I’ll never forget it,” the blond said as he cuddled up on the bed to face Wesley. He brushed a few stray hairs out of Wesley’s face and touched their noses together.  “Is that what you want?”  Wesley nodded. “Then that,” Francis kissed him. “Is what you shall get.” And the two smiled.

 

 

 

TO BE CONCLUDED...

**Author's Note:**

> The characters James Wesley, Francis, and Wilson Fisk are not mine. All others are original.


End file.
